Caged (part 3): Reclamation
by Cabbie Esq
Summary: Todd's and Téa's lives are torn to pieces after Havana, Cuba. Téa Delgado will not settle for such an incomplete ending to her life. She has vowed to reclaim a King's lost life for herself, for a family, for revenge. AU, graphic violence, adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

**Caged** : _**Reclamation**_

 **Chapter** **1**

Téa Delgado-Manning sat at her kitchen table looking at the urn in front of her. It was a simple metal box the color of slate. His name was inscribed on top in smallish block letters on a silver plaque.

 _T. Todd Manning_

Etched below his name were the dates of his birth and death. The numbers made her mouth go dry and she glanced outside the grand French doors. The forest looked thick today, black even, beyond the late spring fog. She never thought much about those trees despite looking at them everyday. So many, about ten acres worth, a person could get lost.

The kids loved their private forest, bright shiny Rose included. They regularly took hikes through it, collected leaves and creatures, and entertained a vast array of imaginary friends there. Enemies too. Reese lately had been fighting a rather frightening pirate at whom he'd wag and jab a tiny sword.

 _You'll never beat me! I am king of the world!_

Sounded like Todd. _King._ She knew he got the words "king of the world" from Starr who at a recent family dinner animatedly recited the details of her new-found infatuation with the movie, _Titanic._ Reese's eyes had been big and his lips parted in rapt attention because she was a force to watch. She'd laughed and then cuddled him but the words and the show had stuck with him. He asked about being _king of the world_ , asked about the big ship, too, and the iceberg, but mostly about being the king and wasn't that an important thing?

Téa wasn't comfortable with Reese's battle in the trees. But her therapist said it was good for him to fight ghosts, to express his hidden upset at the loss of his father. He wanted to be king in an effort to control that which he could not control.

Reese was four, still too young to process the death, but he was aware of it. He asked about their _Papi_ mostly because of Lucia. Lucia asked often about Todd's death. _How did he die? When did he die? Where was he? Was it the war? His war? Where is he buried?_ The worst though was her worry for him. _Did it hurt when he died?_ She cried sometimes but then would shut down. She would grow quiet in typical Manning style. The therapist said that was normal for a nine-year-old. In time, she'd be able to talk more about it. Téa had to be patient.

She cleared her throat and opened the box for the quickest of seconds, glancing at the plastic bag tied up inside, and then closed it. Plastic bag shipped from Cuba. She shuddered. Hard to fathom his body reduced to nothing but gray ashes. That beautiful body, that strong unkillable body with the scars and color. She shut her emotions down at that, as usual. Just like Lucia. _In typical Manning fashion._ Maybe Lucia was more like Téa. Maybe it's not Manning fashion but Delgado fashion.

Coldness washed over her and she breathed a moment or two before she got to her feet. She stood at the windows, her hands on her hips. She could easily see Todd chasing the kids at the edge of their forest, laughing as he did it or making pretend monster sounds. She could see Lucia running and laughing too and Reese running to keep up with Lucia before being grabbed up by Todd and swung in the air. Todd would then hold Reese tight and kiss his neck and cheeks and Reese would giggle like crazy. He was so small the last time he'd been held by Todd.

There was nobody now at the edge of the forest. Todd would never chase his children again, never kiss them again, never again walk through those doors, the children hanging all over him, grinning at her, and saying…

 _Can I chase you too, mami?_

This was her routine. She would drag the box out of her closet and sit with it while she drank coffee and ate a little breakfast. She didn't know why she did it. It wasn't comforting. It wasn't a missing of him, a wishing he would be sitting across from her, doing the same thing. She sat with that box so she could brood. So she could KNOW. She wasn't much different from the children. She told her therapist this was her routine and Bianca said it was a way to process… blah, blah, blah.

 _I hate you, Todd Manning. For dying, for leaving me in that hospital. For blowing yourself up to kingdom come. You fucker. You fucking bastard. You chose death over everything._

She did it because it made her hate him. And hate was a whole lot easier than grieving a loved one. Back upstairs, she put the box into her walk-in closet. Shoved it away on a shelf behind a row of her coats and blazers. His clothes were gone. She'd put them in storage, not able to donate them or sell them or trash them. She couldn't decide actually and so packed them into a locked shed across town, one unmarked unit among hundreds of others just like it. All his clothes had been moved, his suits, his jeans, his shirts, his shoes and socks and underwear. She also stored every belonging that she identified as solely his.

She knew it was unfair to the kids but she simply couldn't bear being near anything that reminded her of him.

 _Are you sure, mí amor?_ Carlotta and Blair had tried to convince her to keep some things but she shut them down cold.

 _Get everything. That and that and especially THOSE._

Everything meant _everything._

She had found a pair of swimming trunks in the back part of a drawer, something she never saw him wear since he hated swimming for some reason and they didn't have a pool anyway and they actually didn't travel to lakes or an ocean much. She wondered if he ever swam in Cuba, holding those shorts up, studying them. Red ones with a black stripe. She couldn't remember why he would have these. What he'd bought them for. She couldn't remember any trip they'd taken that even offered the possibility of a swim. They never even took trips. What pool would he swim in?

 _What the fuck were these for?!_

Everyone around her had given her sympathetic looks as she ranted on and on about the damn shorts, Sam, Viki, Kevin... She knew she'd sounded crazy. She knew _that_ when Carlotta hugged her and said, "It's okay, _amorcita_ , it's okay." She shuddered at the recall of that day. The cleaning-out day. She pulled her hair back. Cursed him as she did a hundred times a day.

 _You fucker. You fucking bastard. King of Nothing. I'm glad you're dead, you asshole. If you weren't dead and you survived that bombing I'd have killed you myself with my bare fucking hands._

"Téa?"

She jumped, startled. Viki was at the door to her bedroom. The housekeeper must have let her in and directed her upstairs. She had a concerned expression on her face and Téa figured she must have looked like she indeed wanted to kill someone.

"I'm sorry, honey, I would have knocked. I heard you talking and-"

"No, no worries. Talking to myself. A little lost in it. Just another day." She closed the closet doors and turned. She couldn't get herself to smile in any way.

"I wanted to show you the proof… but maybe another time?"

"It's fine. Show me."

Viki was in the process of having Todd's name added to the Lord family mausoleum. He'd probably have hated that, given his choice. To be honest. She didn't argue the matter. Viki showed her a picture of what the bronze plaque would look like. Quickly, Téa noted his name, date of birth, date of death, a recognition of him as husband, father, brother, uncle. She distinctly noticed the absence of the word, _friend,_ and she had to think about that one, wondering even whether that was a thing to say on such a nameplate, concluding it would be unusual and really he had no _friends._ Below was a quote about lifting himself up from ashes and living his life on his own merits… or something like that.

Téa hardly looked. She shrugged and said, yes, that's fine. "Very nice font," she snapped.

"His urn will be put into the crypt… is that okay?"

She instinctively glanced at the closet doors, knowing the box sat inside on that shelf. Todd's estate plan was silent on what to do with his cremains. He just wanted cremation. That was all the papers provided. Details on the rest was left to Viki who was the successor trustee of all his trusts. His lawyer was the initial trustee as long as Todd was alive but the plan specifically requested that Viki take over in the event of Todd's death. If Viki wasn't alive or refused or wasn't capable of it, then it would be Téa, and if she couldn't or wouldn't or wasn't alive, then it was to be any lawyer at Jedediah's choosing. If not Jedediah, then Starr.

"Whatever. I guess. I don't want them. His ashes, I mean."

Viki smiled sadly. "We can divide them up, you know. Maybe a little for each of the kids?"

Monstrous, Téa thought. What's wrong with these people? You can't divide a body. He needs all the ashes to be whole. She knew she made no sense. She said nothing, shrugging.

"And now… something else on his estate plan."

All his money went into a slew of trusts. Téa was a wealthy woman on her own and that was acknowledged. But he covered her anyway. Her legal share of their earned community property went to her, his share and all his separate property (earned before the marriage to Téa) went to the kids. There were special gifts, his prison charity for the younger inmates for one. He left Blair a sizeable amount.

Nothing had been transferred yet, however. Viki and Téa both admittedly dragged heels. Mainly it was because of the littlest Manning on earth… _Esperanza_. She only just got out of NICU after two months - the neonatal intensive care unit - and they'd been completely absorbed in her growth and survival of being prematurely born. She was now a regular cooing baby, having caught up miraculously well to her earthly age of two months rather than her minus two months. She was napping, Alison their au pair, buzzing nearby down the hall, near a monitor, ready to run when Esperanza woke up. Lucia and Reese were in their respective schools and it felt a little like respite. Téa had balked on work today, skipping the office.

Viki pulled a large manila envelope out of her bag. Holding it, she smiled that sad smile and said, "You want to go downstairs?"

"No, sit. Here is fine."

They moved to the small den in the bedroom. Viki sat in a fine flowery wingback chair while Téa sat in Todd's overstuffed sofa-chair where he often read or lectured Téa or groaned about whatever was irritating him or... urged her over to him to fuck him…

 _No, no, no. Don't._ _God, don't go there._

Too late. A flash of climbing onto his lap and sinking onto his ready self felt like yet another knife in her gut. She put it out of her head. Reminded herself of her preferred memory of this chair. This was where he had been sleeping, stoned on heroin, that one day when Rolon purposefully injected him with even more dope which sent Todd into an overdose. If it hadn't been for Dr. Timothy Graham coming over with Jedediah, Todd would have died.

Good times.

 _You fucker. You fucking bastard. Leaving me there in Havana, leaving your children. I will never fucking forgive you. You should have died from that overdose._

Téa breathed deeply to quell her hundred-times-a-day curse that threatened to gain a voice and watched as Viki pulled out a small stack of papers from the envelope. The manilla envelope fell to the floor and Téa had a hard time tearing away from it.

"He amended his trust," Viki said. "Did you know?"

"No. Recently?"

"Yes… while in Havana."

"What's it about?"

She didn't really care. Money had lost all its importance to her these days. She supposed it would matter if she was penniless but that wasn't possible so she was back to not caring about HIS money. She eyed Viki, knowing her lack of caring was overly obvious. But then she realized Viki was slightly… uncomfortable? Hesitant?

"What is it? What?" Téa repeated in a more engaged way, false as it was.

"Who is Rico Macias?"

 _Oh god… that name._

She hadn't heard it, hadn't thought it, in weeks and weeks and weeks. Her heart cracked right open at the sound of it, at the immediate picture of him, at seeing beautiful strong haunted _oh-so-deadly_ Rico who held Todd's heart for all those months in Cuba because of course she couldn't think about him. Rico was Todd's truth… Rico was an expression of the vast breadth of love Todd was capable of, Rico proved Todd's deep-down openness to people after all, showed the great depth of passion inside of him that he so desperately tried to deny…

 _You are not dead. I see it in your kisses, how you hold him beneath you, how you move so hard against him… my god…you are so very much alive._

He proclaimed himself dead, murdered by Téa's bullets, and yet there there he was in Havana, Cuba, a place so very far away, loving a man who showed him love in the darkest of places, despite everything, even though Todd never wanted to admit that truth, that he was in fact human, that he could in fact love and feel love in so many ways…

 _Oh god, mí amor, mí amor… goddamnit… oh fucking damn it..._

"Téa," Viki said softly, putting a hand on hers. "I'm sorry."

 _I could love you, Rico Macias, I could do this, the three of us, we can be something… fuck me, make it real, let's not pretend… he will be happy, he will be full… he will know love like he's never known in his whole life..._

Téa wiped the spontaneous tears on her face, tried to. "Oh Jesus…," she choked, a hysterical mad sob right at her throat, in her chest, rising up up up, threatening to pull her down down down into a heap where she would scream an endless scream. The tears kept coming despite her willing them to stop, demanding that they stop.

 _I love you, Todd Manning, I love you with all I am, with my whole soul, with every inch of me, and I hate you just as much for dying. I hate you for leaving us, all of us. We were your family. You had no right to choose death over us. I love you I love you I love you oh my god I am going to die today tomorrow please please let this not be real please God please let this—_

Viki didn't press. She sat patiently, reading the documents, letting Téa get back to herself. Soon Téa breathed in deeply and noisily, and said, "Okay, sorry, okay. I didn't expect to hear his name." She breathed and breathed and soon the terror faded, the massive black grief forced back into its box on the hidden shelf inside of her.

"It happens," Viki said quietly. "Things will just hit you and there you'll be in the middle of a supermarket or in the hallway or in the car…crying." Viki squeezed Téa's hand. "Grieving is very difficult."

Téa nodded, using her sleeve to wipe her nose, no tissues anywhere near her. She didn't ever cry, she made sure of it, so no need for tissue boxes around the house. She swallowed and sniffed hard. _I fucking hate you._ She studied Viki, focusing on her eyes that were the very same color as Todd's. Blinked away the last of the determined tears.

The two women held each other's gaze, holding hands, and soon Téa said more plainly than she intended, "Rico was Todd's lover in Havana."

 _Touch me… tell me not to be afraid._

Viki nodded, her mouth in an _ahhh_ shape. Smiled a little, then didn't. "He must have… really, actually, cared for him then." She looked at Téa then back at the papers, flipping the pages. "He left him a good sum of money in this amendment," she said. "Left him more than he left Blair."

"He loved him, Viki. I shot Todd… and he found love in Havana."

"Love." Viki closed her eyes and caressed the paper in her hand, an unconscious act. Her thumb tenderly running over Todd's signature.

Téa was quiet then sputtered, "You're not shocked."

"No, should I be?"

"Viki, I just told you he had a lover, a man, and Todd loved him the way he'd love a woman. Real love. Yes, I'd think you'd be surprised at least."

"Are _you_?"

"No, but…maybe... ? I was?"

Viki grew serious and did not mince words. "Téa, things happened when he was on the streets, using, back when Brandy was in his life. I learned, suspected, that his sexuality was… uncertain. Things he said. Doesn't matter anyway… does it? What's the point? Even if I was shocked… what good would it do? He's done a hell of a lot more shock-worthy things… than love someone. Don't you think?"

Téa smiled a little, a pained laugh sitting in her chest, staying put. She nodded, fingertips at her lips.

Viki then asked, "You knew Rico, then? Personally?"

"Yes," Téa said softly, over Viki's taking it all in stride. "It's hard to hear his name, makes Havana recent, makes Todd's death… recent. I'm glad Todd took care of him."

"You're glad. You don't hate Rico then."

"No."

"THAT shocks me. On a pure…wifely level."

"I lost all claims to _my husband_ the day I shot him. I was never _angry_ at Rico. I could never hate him. Ever. I loved him actually for loving Todd when I couldn't." She whispered the last words.

Téa smoothed her jeans, running her hands down her thighs. She felt cold despite her heavy sweater. As such, she had a hard time recreating in her head Havana's humidity that hung in that room in that house. But she had no trouble seeing, feeling, their nights together, the couple of times they three lay naked and intertwined on that bed in that Havana bedroom. Rico and Téa were trying to keep Todd alive that last night. They thought it worked. She remembered her last hour with Rico alone. He was beautiful, so incredibly beautiful.

 _Too beautiful to kill._

It was funny though how his beauty was not what Todd loved about him. She doubted he even noticed just how magnificent Rico was. From what she knew of them, of Todd, it was Rico's brokenness, his loyalty, his kindness, it was _how_ he loved Todd… _those_ things made Todd fall in love with him. And Téa only knew a little. There was so much she didn't know, and now, perhaps would never know. But… she could say absolutely, Rico's beauty was the least of things that drew Todd because beauty was never Todd's weakness.

Brandy, for instance, had not been beautiful at all - could have been if not for how she lived. Similarly, Smithy Jackson could have been beautiful if not for the terrible burn on his face. Kenneth… he was handsome in a quirky way, in a blond-Harry-Potter-nerd way, but nothing like Rico. And Todd loved all those people in some way. But, she supposed, he did not love any of them the way he loved Rico. Maybe his beauty cinched the whole thing. She didn't know.

Téa closed her eyes while Viki read the important parts of the trust amendment to her. Rico's name drifted in the air over and over.

 _Rico Macias._

She could hear Todd's voice behind those changes to his estate plan, saying words she could not make out. Or rather words she did not want to make clear. The voice in her head, his voice, was losing depth, wholeness, specificity. She was quickly forgetting the sound of him. He was so close though, still, that she could smell him. She glanced around. It was probably the sofa. She leaned over and sniffed the fabric.

Cigarettes.

Téa shook her head. Rico's name brought Todd back to life in a way. She glanced at the windows, at hazy bright light. She could see him there, ass on the window sill, tightly muscled arms crossed, bare chest, faded jeans hanging indecently low on his hips, that light spray of hair on his chest that reduced to a line that went down to his pubis... terrible scarring marked him all over as did that ink. Bullet wounds on his chest. Healed… though still blazing. Piercing hazel eyes held hers fast, a gaze she could touch, a demanding expression on his bearded face framed by long graying brown hair.

 _Remember me. Think of me. See ME._

Her eyes dropped to his bare feet. Toes curled on the chilled wooden planks. Tears came to her… hot and angry and then evaporated. _Go away._ Memories washed out with the tide of reality.

 _You fucker. You fucking bastard. I fucking hate you. And I fucking hate your cigarettes. Too bad they didn't kill you ages ago._

"Have you… um… contacted Rico?" Téa asked when Viki finished the reading.

"Not yet. Todd's lawyer is on it. We only just got the signed amendment. It was held up with the FBI. A young man named Kenneth McNair contacted George, you know, Todd's lawyer, and said he had paperwork from the day Todd was killed but that his boss Benicio Juarez demanded it once they were back on American soil so red tape held it up."

Téa said, "He signed it."

"Yes," Viki said, the signed page the one she was touching.

Téa reached for the papers and eyed the page. A scribble met her eyes, unquestionably Todd's. It was messier than usual. It was hurried. He signed it… knowing maybe… figuring maybe… he was going to die. George must have prepared these but then called for a quick signature. Téa ran fingertips over the black curves. She looked at the date. He'd signed it two days before he died.

"You bastard…," she sighed.

"Can you tell me about Rico? Is he someone I should be generous with or… restrictive?"

Téa said nothing for a while, her fingers staying on the signature. Over and over, she caressed his name until she was scratching at it. She handed it back to Viki to protect the page from her nails, from her desire to tear that signature away from the page and eat it.

"Rico is deeply loyal," she finally said. "He is breathtakingly beautiful, a face, a body, that you'd see in a magazine. He's young, just a little older than Jedediah. He's smart, street-smart, street- _brilliant_. He's an artist. A damn good one. He paints, draws. He is a survivor."

"What do you mean a survivor?"

"Rico was a child sex slave. As an adult, he was a prostitute. And in that, he… uh… sometimes put up with Todd's abuse a little too easily."

"My god."

"Yeah, his story is… _shocking…_ brutal, far worse than anything I've ever heard _._ "

 _Too beautiful to kill._

"Is he like Brandy?"

"NO, god no. Nothing like her. At first I thought he was but then… I got to know him and realized how much stronger he was than Brandy, how much… better he was for Todd. I saw pretty quickly too that Todd… um… that he loved Rico in a fairly conventional way." Téa rested her head on her hand, an elbow on the sofa-chair's arm. Eyes looked into the distance but then she glanced at her sister-in-law, finding a doubtful expression on her face.

Viki smiled just a little, "Todd wasn't very conventional."

"But it was. I saw with my own eyes that they… uh… didn't just have sex, they made love. Todd was kind to him, truly cared for him. He'd look for him when Rico disappeared sometimes, he would make sure Abram was with Rico… to help him. Todd tried to downplay it… but I saw it. _I saw it._ "

"You cannot tell me that did not hurt you. You say no..."

"Of course it did. It positively killed me. But who was I to object? I shot him, Viki. Like Tim once said, I betrayed him in the worst way possible. He trusted me with his life and I took that trust away. Tim said… no surprise that the next person he loved would not be a woman. What he really meant was that it wouldn't necessarily be _me_."

Viki was quiet, contemplating what Téa was saying. Téa knew Viki had her opinions on the shooting and that they were probably similar to what Tim said but she kept them to herself. Always.

"He loved Todd, too, then," Viki said softly.

"Yes, he did." She laughed a little. "He tried to deny it too. Never have I seen two people fighting so much what they felt inside of themselves. In the end, I accepted _them_ because- well, anyways."

"You haven't spoke to him since..."

"He left Havana quickly… I don't know why. I was surprised - thought he would have wanted to see me. I worried for weeks and then… I just stopped thinking of him altogether. It's too hard, too complicated."

"Given the option… do you want to see him, see Rico?"

Tears wetted her eyes once more and she didn't really know why. Maybe because talking about Rico brought her close again to loving Todd. It was so much easier to hate him. She shrugged. "I'm not sure."

She didn't have to explain. She knew Viki probably went with the wifely jealousy. Téa didn't have it in her to counter any of Viki's presumptions. Thinking about Rico brought the love out. It brought the grieving out. And right now, she needed to hate. And hate BIG. So no… she didn't want to see Rico, or talk to him, or even think about him.

Viki soon left her, both saying their goodbyes and promising a Sunday dinner with all the kids. Esperanza was crying and her voice carried down the hall. She was strong in her cries, full throaty demanding cries. Allison would pick her up. Funny, how babies cry with so much hate.

 _No_ , she corrected herself, _Esperanza cries with hate._

She turned to the windows and the ghost of Todd still stood there. He grinned darkly, a hand giving his crotch a squeeze like a gangster, knocking his head back, the snake on his neck seeming to glare at her. Then he laughed. He lit up a cigarette that came out of nowhere, head bent, hand protecting the light as if a breeze could kill it. He shook with laughter. Smiled at her with that cigarette hanging out of his mouth, smoke enveloping his face. He shoved the lighter back in his jeans pocket then leaned back, hands on the sill behind him.

Spoke to her with no voice.

 _Now you get it, doncha. Hating is better than crying. 'Cause if you cry for the shit you lost, you'll never fuckin' stop. And then what? You'll die of the goddamn grief, Delgado. It'll eat you alive. So you gotta hate. And hate with everything you are, with your entire body and soul, so you can survive another day. So you can live to see the fuckers get blown to Kingdom COME. Is that rain I feel or is that their blood?_

He put his hand out as if he was feeling the drops.

 _God might be crying but I sure as hell ain't._

She could see him, his face changing, his face showing all that _hate_. The fourth year convict in Statesville stood at her window now. He flicked his cigarette away. He left the window sill. Took steps towards her. Eyes hard on hers. He pounded his chest with a closed hand, a fist. He screamed silently, teeth bared like an animal, veins in his neck popping, hair trembling that half covered his face, ropy muscles in his shoulders and arms and chest and stomach. _Jesus_. His fists were up now and you knew they were going to come at you, floor you, like he had weights in those knuckles. Then he'd straddle you and make you wish you were dead. He'd end you. He was going to send you straight to hell.

She shut him off.

THAT was the bastard who blew up her life. His children's lives. His own. So full of hate he'd killed off everything good in himself, everything good that the world had to offer. He killed off the real Todd Manning.

 _Blanco Moreno, the Mad King of the Mambo Kings, the survivor of Téa's bullets, got his way._

She needed to remind herself of that. Todd had wrecked everything with that hate. Killed all hope any of them had for peacefulness, for a loving life, for something real and lasting and good.

She needed to not repeat that, right?

Téa did not tell Viki everything about Rico. That he had been full of hate, too… that he easily murdered Manuel Caro, cutting him to pieces, and then delicately ate the man's heart as Téa began to bleed out, as she began to die.

No, no, she had to remember that _hate_ was a terrible thing.

Except…ghostly Todd was right. She had hate inside of her now. Understood it now. And she was having a hell of a time trying to be better than that. Trying not to wreck things with her _bottomless hate_.

Her question was… since Todd was dead, who was _she_ screaming at? Who was _she_ aiming her weighted fists at? Who'd _she_ straddle and make wish they were dead with her endless punches?

Cool brown eyes looked at the cell phone on the bed as it buzzed. She sniffed. Got up off the chair with a grunt, the one thing of Todd's she kept, this goddamn chair, and picked up the phone. Rolled her eyes. A daily check-in call.

"What?"

"Ouch, _mamita_. Who pinched _you_?"

"Fuck you, Rolon."

He chuckled and then didn't. "Are you okay, _mí reina_?"

She smiled and sighed. "I'm fine. Just dealing with the world."

"I have a case for you."

"What…"

"You said you were ready for work. Can you meet with him?"

"A criminal case."

He was quiet a moment. "A new recruit. Got caught with heroin, enough to sell. I bailed him out myself."

"Recruit? He's MK?"

"Yeah."

"We talked about this. I thought Pedro let you go."

"I _am_ out. Nothing has changed. I just… know this kid. Saw the color."

"Send him my way then."

"Your old office? It's up and running then."

"Yes. I'm back, Rolon."

She hung up and looked at the ghost at the window. He clicked a lighter on and off, on and off. Kept it on and lit up a cigarette. Stared hard at her. Growled silently when she scowled at him.

 _Fuck you, Todd Manning. May you be burning in hell for all goddamn eternity._

He laughed at that, cigarette in his fingers, orange tip. He laughed and laughed. Pointed the cigarette at her. Then he brought the thing to his mouth and puffed and turned his head, letting out the smoke, watching the fog outside.

 **To be continued….**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Caged** : **Reclamation**_

 **Chapter** **2**

Llanview Police Department was noisy with a ranting drunk in the box and the general din of a Thursday afternoon. Bo Buchanan sat in his office, the windows keeping out none of the distraction. He flipped through the photographs of the now-historical Cuban bombing in Havana. Happened two months ago and it still felt fresh. Felt surreal.

 _Commissioner, DNA tests came back positive for Todd Manning. A wedding ring was recovered. A necklace was noted but it seems to have been lost._

Surreal _._

The detailed file was provided care of the FBI, INTERPOL, and, in a rare show of cooperation, the Cuban local police. More agencies ended up stepping in due to foreign nationals being killed, namely Canada and Mexico. At first, the bombing was considered a terrorist act by political activists. But a positive identification of a known Canadian child trafficker changed everything.

 _BREAKING NEWS: Shocking story out of Havana, Cuba, today, two weeks after a major bombing that rocked the usually peaceful city. According to Cuban sources, the explosion is related to a child trafficking investigation which has resulted in one of the largest busts for the FBI to date._

FBI went public. It informed the world that one of the most extensive child exploitation rings had been toppled. Tens of stolen children were found alive in three different countries, hundreds of participants arrested. It was an incredible story of international abductions, trafficking, and sex slavery. Films, pictures, dark web treasure troves, were ferreted out and ended.

It was enough to make anyone question humanity.

 _Where was Manning found?_

 _In the basement._

 _Not with the rest of the victims?_

 _The Havana Chief can't verify that. The record is… shifting._

 _What does that mean?_

 _First the basement, then the kitchen, then upstairs. Shifting. All reports on Manning are conflicting._

He studied the 13th body, blackened beyond recognition. His cheek twitched at the image. He had a hard time wrapping his mind around the bombing and all that ensued. The explosion had been so carefully and expertly executed that no other homes on the block blew up despite the connected gas lines. It was a highly organized and well-planned murder of an historically large number of people for Cuba. An American-style number of victims.

Thirteen.

What wasn't shared publicly by the FBI was that the bombed house was a target in a sanctioned undercover operation and that Todd Manning was the 13th body.

He was officially designated as a John Doe, his identity kept secret. So thorough was the need to keep him out of public eye that Havana PD recorded his death as accidental, cause "undetermined but probable heroin overdose." His body was cremated ahead of any choice by the U.S. and the ashes sent home. The premature cremation caused a lot of tension. The records were scrubbed of his true death. Only the savviest of agents could piece together the _shifting_ story via cookie crumbs in the FBI system.

Jedediah Chant, Rolon Lopez, Pedro Moreno, and of course, Téa Delgado, knew the truth that not only was he a bombing victim, but also a main suspect. He had the motive to do it and the animus.

One big barrier to him being the mastermind however: he would not have had the know-how for such a killing. The bombing was considered "sophisticated," clearly carried out by an expert bomb maker. Some names had been suggested from FBI intel, but nothing concrete since the charges in the gas lines disintegrated alongside the usual signatures. Moreover, this didn't fit Manning's modus operandi. Planned murder, much less carefully and successfully executed, was not Manning's style. Never had been. He was never a great criminal. It's why he ended up in prison multiple times.

Back to the scrub.

Pretty quickly the FBI decided they did not want to expose Manning's connection to the undercover operation, that he was a confidential informant working against the victims, that he was a member of the Mambo Kings working with the FBI. They were concerned such exposure could put Téa and the kids at risk. The Cuban government had their reasons as well. See, Todd Manning had become a respected Cuban son among the locals, deeply tied to Pedro Moreno, a member of Havana's elite. To say he murdered two or three fellow Cubans, even evil ones, was a black mark. They argued that enemies probably wanted to take him out along with the rotten traffickers. His connection to the pornographers was bad luck. Coincidence. He might have been forced into that house.

And what if the forced-into-the-house story wasn't accurate? That would mean only one thing: Pedro Moreno's _son_ was associated with a child sex ring, that Manning must have been in that house with all those child pornographers because HE was a child pornographer, meaning the Mambo Kings were also child pornographers.

Meaning Pedro Moreno was a child pornographer.

No way, no how. The Cuban government wasn't going to pursue that theory much to the chagrin of the FBI. FBI went along with one caveat: they would continue the investigation and if they found proof of Moreno's culpability with regard to the child sex ring, Cuba would fully cooperate. If no promise of cooperation, Manning was going to be announced as the 13th victim. No scrubbing. Cuba's failure to catch one of their own would be made public.

Cuba agreed.

So it stood. Todd Manning died somewhere else. No connection to the bombing. For now.

Noise broke through the Commissioner's office windows. "I'm telling you I'm innocent! My girlfriend crashed the car, I didn't!"

"You need this office soundproofed."

"Not kidding."

Across the Commissioner's desk sat FBI agent Benicio Juarez, lead detective on trafficking. He continued to work the case; he was not finished with Todd Manning or Pedro Moreno.

"Manning fucked me in one big way," he groused, their conversation rising above the drunk's misery.

"You didn't get MK, lost your big fish."

"Yup." He tossed a thumb drive on the desk.

"What's that?"

"Garbage. Manning swore the connections were on it. That Moreno could be proven to be tied to the sex ring. Thing is empty. Either it's been wiped or Manning lied."

"How did Moreno come out on this?"

"Clean."

"You don't buy it."

"Hell no."

Bo crossed his arms. Thinking on this. "So Manning covered up Moreno's involvement. Loyalty maybe, last minute loyalty."

Juarez eyed Bo. "With all due respect, Commissioner, Manning was less loyal at the end. From what we know, he deposed Moreno as king of MK. Died a king, not a soldier."

"What are you thinking then?"

"He had information that Moreno ran that child trafficking ring and it's being used against Moreno today, still."

"Blackmail. Except Manning is dead. What would be the purpose now? And who is the new blackmailer?"

"Who the fuck knows? Moreno is toeing some line we need to figure out. Gotta find the line."

"So what do you want from me?"

"Open up everything you have on MK and Manning and make it accessible to us."

"It's always been available. _Mí casa es su casa._ "

"Good to know." He pulled the file towards him, grew thoughtful. He tapped the picture. "How's Téa Delgado doing? She aware her daughter can ask for Cuban citizenship? Be officially Cuban. Country is still a big believer in birthright citizenship."

"I heard that."

"Did you know little Esperanza has a social media following in Havana? When Havana locals learned Manning's wife had his daughter on Cuban soil, folks got excited in some circles."

"That's crazy."

"Manning was… _respected_. Havana adopted him, considered him Cuban; it's why he could _be_ the Mad King of the Mambo Kings. Now his daughter really is one of them."

"Well… isn't that a hell of a thing."

Juarez laughed then didn't. Looked up, waiting for Bo to answer his original question. He was an old-school cop, rugged, willing to get dirty to catch the bad guy. Lots of years on New York City streets before hopping to federal. Puerto Rican guy who seemed to have a soft spot for Téa Delgado.

Bo shook his head, knowing the question.

"Téa won't be taking Esperanza to Havana any time soon." He sighed. "She's an angry widow, but she's getting back on her feet. Opened her legal practice back up. Saw her in court just yesterday. She's a strong lady but … she's carrying a lot of upset. Manning left five kids behind — two of them grown and feeling the full brunt of loss. Hard grief. The others are so young, and living in that confused place of a child's grief— knowing their father is dead and not understanding it."

"They're a pretty tight family—."

"Yeah and Téa has to constantly work with them. Be the strong mother all the time. A tough place to be. You ever lose anyone at a young age like that, Juarez? Like a parent?"

"No, lost my parents in my 40s. Hard grief. But to be honest, the worst was losing a partner to the job. Bank robbery. Nearly quit being a cop that year. Decided to honor them instead by staying."

The two men sighed heavily in mutual understanding.

"Anyway, just have your people come by. We'll see you have space to comb over everything."

"Appreciate it. Any chance you have sway with Jedediah? I gotta suspicion on him."

Bo sat a little straighter. Despite all his fight with Manning, he was a little protective over the kid. He'd been given a raw deal to have Manning as a dad. But the kid loved him. "What do you know?"

"The hospital in Havana had surveillance tapes of the hallways. On the afternoon Téa was taken, there's video of Manning giving Jed a book of some sort. The kid said it was a sketchbook by Rico Macias."

"Macias is an artist. Did you see the book?"

"We saw a book."

"Sketchbook by Macias."

"Jed switched it out, the little shit! It was always a bullshit story. I think the Moreno evidence is in the book that Jed got from his dad, that afternoon."

Bo sat back, contemplating. Plausible theory. "I'll make inquiries but… you gotta know Manning spent five years in prison rather than have his son testify for him. So I betcha that _book_ is long gone and deeply buried. While Manning may not have been all that loyal to Moreno, Jedediah will die for his father. THAT is loyalty that is not gonna change."

"Any sway would help. Give it a shot."

"So you think Jed knows the Moreno connection."

"I don't know. But I'm convinced that book has what we're looking for."

"Except what would _Jed's_ motivation be for keeping it secret?"

"Don't know. Guess we have to ask what would Manning's world lose if Moreno goes to jail?"

Good question.

He got up at that and so did Bo. The men shook hands. "Have you officially closed the case, Commissioner?"

"No. The bombing is still an open matter so to speak. We'd like proof positive as to who the bomber was. Once we get that, then we'll let Manning rest in his heroin overdose, forever scrubbed."

"He could have been a recognized hero, you know. Gotten a medal even. He gave us the key to ending that trafficking ring, biggest bust in FBI history."

"82 kids saved, I heard, and counting. The list is massive and they're still being picked up."

"Without his evidence, Commissioner, that thing would still be in full operation today."

"I know. He'll never get credit for having done a truly good thing."

"Scrubbed."

Bo flashed a quizzical look at the agent's bitter tone. Juarez shoved his hands into his pants pockets. Head down a few seconds before he eyed Bo.

"I think he's our bomber, Commissioner. I think he had a guy set the thing up and he decided to stick around for the show for whatever reason."

"I don't think that's outta the realm of possibility."

"Thing is, I have mixed feelings on whether I want that to be confirmed. There's never been a better end to a set of _victims._ For all my dislike of the guy… he's still a hero to me. Even more if he's the one who did it. Unfortunately, the world will not agree with me on that and if he's the one, instead of a hero he'll be listed on those serial killer websites."

Bo watched the big man leave, saw him chat up some officers before heading to the elevators. Bo sat heavily and flipped to the 13th body photograph once again. He had no answers to any questions.

Why would Manning stick around to go up in smoke with the pornographers? If he wasn't the bomber, who was, and why take out Manning alongside the pornographers? Maybe Manning was the intended target and the pornographers were just good luck? And why would Manning, and now Jed, protect Moreno from being associated with that ring? Why not get full justice? Why indeed. Why… to any of this.

 _Scrubbed. Shifting._

Bo wished he had answers. Téa wanted answers too. Wanted to pick up the phone and ask Manning, "What the hell is going on?!"

He felt like he could just do that. Call Manning. Barge into his office at the Sun. Spy on him as he walked to an MK club, late at night. Bo sighed. They might have been at odds but… funny how hard it was to believe he was truly gone. Expected him any day to come crashing through the department's front door mad as hell that anyone thought he was dead.

 _Are you fuckin' kidding me? Do I look dead to you? I'm Todd Manning, you bastards, look at me! I'm fuckin' immortal!_

Bo dug into the front drawer of his desk and pulled out a magnifying glass. Hundredth time he'd done it. Hunched over, he studied the blackened body on the coroner's table. Every indicator in the file promised this was a picture of Manning's body as retrieved from the bombing.

The thing that always caught Bo's eye though was what looked like a goddamn gold chain on the body's chest. He looked and looked. Again and again. Burnished yellow cord in the black. One report said Macias had given him a necklace with a Catholic saint as a pendant, and that's what the coroner said this was. The one that was coincidentally _lost._

Thing was… Manning never wore _gold_.

Blair once commented he had an allergy to the metal. Could have been a joke. The context of the comment was long forgotten. But in all the years Bo knew him, he never saw gold chains even when it was cool for his generation. And Bo had him in lock-up plenty of times. Plenty of mug shots proved he never had gold chains around his neck. Silver sometimes, leather strap once.

And not according to Jedediah or Téa either. They swore up and down that Macias had given him a _silver_ chain, not gold. The picture showed gold though. Goddamn _gold_. That's gold, not silver.

Stuck in his craw. Just did. That… was a goddamn gold chain.

He tossed the magnifying glass onto the picture, the thing slamming into Manning's inches-thick rap sheet on the corner of his desk. Bo kept it for who-knows-what reason. A big red stamp on the top said "deceased."

 _Jesus._

"You _were_ supposed to be immortal, kid. Ireland didn't get you, Statesville didn't, heroin didn't, and neither did all those other tries to make you dead. You always came through. Can't believe Havana finally did it. Hell of a thing… hell of a thing."

 _Scrubbed. Shifting._

A knock on the door drew Bo's attention. Officer Flare was poking her head in the door. "You have another visitor. A reporter… from Cuba."

"Send him in. And bring us fresh coffee? Please? Been a day."

In minutes, a young man with curly black hair, rugged-looking clothes, and an orange backpack, stood in the doorway and said in heavily accented Spanish, "I am Ian Correa… and I believe there is a problem with _La_ _Habana_ bombing investigation."

Bo laughed and looked right at the reporter and against all rules, he blurted, "No shit."

* * *

 **Day of the Havana Bombing**

Raw instinct told Ian Correa that the dusty green van wasn't going to stay parked. At the bombing site, he'd seen that van snake its way to the rear of the destroyed house. The crowd had been pushed back hard and fast by the police.

He saw a kid hop out of the van in a rush then get back in later. Ian had heard but couldn't see those back doors slam shut. Then the van started back down the alley. He tried to get to it, and caught a wary look from the kid as he passed by before he hit the gas. In a real rush. Ian, a journalist for the underground Havana Times, jumped on his bike to chase the van.

He thought he'd lost it. His reporter's instincts were on fire though. Just as he turned around to head back to the site, he saw it parked on a side street. In a minute, another kid rolled up. Tied his own bike up on a post and jumped into the back. Slammed the doors hard. A few minutes later the van took off.

These kids had something. These kids were not taking out the trash— they were obviously doing police work. A mighty plain van to do government work so had to be unofficial or something the government did not want the people to know.

Right up Ian's alley.

He drove slowly and deliberately behind the van as it made its way through Havana. Then it hit the highway and its speed picked up. Ian had no choice. He had to speed up. And that's when the driver caught whiff of the reporter. He started weaving through the few other cars on the road. Started trying to get away from Ian.

But Ian was an expert at this. He smiled and kept on the van. He took note of the license plate — hoping to get the name of the driver from his contacts at the registration office. He looked at his gas and he was getting low, _coño!_

The van took a sudden exit at that, driving too fast over a pothole and almost flying. The thing landed on the road with indignity. But on it went down the road. Ian caught the exit just in time, seeing the van way down the same road. It made a turn though and when Ian got to the turn, he couldn't see the van.

He hit the brakes and stopped. He cursed loudly. He waited. He was in a small town and these guys might not know that the only entrance back on the highway was two blocks to the east.

So Ian took a chance. Drove to that single entrance. He parked by a building there. Nearly whooped when he saw dusty green noisily coming towards him. As soon as it got back on the road, Ian was right on their _culo_ again _._

The van's driver must have noticed Ian and been shook up at that because suddenly the van swerved and then sped up. Tried the weaving thing. Nothing they did was gonna lose Ian.

They didn't stop though. Ian was sweating in the misty afternoon, less at the humidity and more that he was going to run out of gas. The run continued and continued hard and fast.

Ian yanked out his cell phone and dialed his fellow journalist who stayed at the site. He yelled into the phone, " _I'm still following the van! I got the license plate. Get the info on the driver from our friend at registration office!"_

He rattled off the license plate and sped up again to get closer to the van.

They were speeding now, drawing attention now. Cubans loved drama so the drivers that noticed the chase yelled out their windows, laughing and whooping it up and letting Ian pass them by. Any more interest and they would start slowing the van down. Ian didn't want that though because he needed to know the destination — where these guys were headed. That end would tell Ian a little something.

He saw the gas tank gauge. Almost empty. He was going to lose them.

"Fuck!" He cursed in English.

Suddenly, the end became clear. They were in Colon, a small city that happened to have an airport. They were headed there, chances were. He slowed down. Gave them space to make them think he lost interest. He could barely see them now. He followed the dusty green dot. Sure enough he saw them enter the airport.

But instead of going to the major airline gates, they went to a private runway. It was only for government officials. He was stopped at a checkpoint. He didn't fight the guard.

From the fence, he saw the van. They couldn't hide from here. The van slammed on breaks. Stopped at a cargo plane.

He took his camera out. Clicked away as a gurney with a brown cover on top was rolled out of the van. Could have been anything except there was a saline drip attached to the gurney. Ian let out a shaky breath, stunned. That was a patient.

Someone survived the bombing.

He dialed his friend. " _Joe, did you get the name of the driver?"_

" _This is interesting, Ian."_

" _Spill it."_

" _The driver is the nephew of the chief. And that van - it's a cover for an ambulance."_ He laughed. " _What do you have?"_

" _We got a survivor. Someone lived through that bombing and the cops don't want us to know."_

" _Sounds like we have a story."_

" _That we do."_

Ian watched the plane take off. He called the guard over. Handed him a rather big bill. " _Come on friend. Where's the plane going?"_

The guy looked uncomfortable then didn't. Smiled at the money. " _Cargo plane is headed to Baracoa. Only tourists and old Cubans live there. And Americans on the base."_ He laughed and Ian walked back to his bike.

 _Baracoa._

The most remote part of Cuba, hard to reach, rarely visited by anyone … a two hour flight from Havana to a tiny airport, then a hard road on a mountain range that served as a natural barrier to the rest of the island, mere miles from Guantanamo Bay and the major American prison otherwise known as _Gitmo_.

 _Holy shit_ , Ian said. _Who is the patient and where the hell are they going?_

Yeah, there was a story.

* * *

Sister Beatrice waited at the airport for her dearest friend, Father Paolo. He would be flying a 1958 cargo plane with an unmarked package on it. Special delivery. She sniffed the sea air and raised a hand to her forehead against the setting sun's light to watch for him. She was on the tarmac and wore her usual dark green khaki pants, a button-up shirt with stripes and a black tee-shirt beneath, her ancient combat boots, and a modern nun's habit that consisted of a white cowl neck and similar scarf-like covering for her head. The scarf ran down past her shoulders and covered her thick, very untamed gray hair.

" _What time is it?_ " She called out to the guard nearby.

He checked his watch and said, " _5:30 - is the Father late?"_

" _Nearly late._ "

The guard chuckled.

Sister Beatrice wasn't simply a nun. She was the Mother Superior of the convent known as _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia_. She was brilliant at her work to be honest. This wasn't bragging. It was a fact. She was a nun, a doctor, and a Mother Superior in charge of twenty nuns. All that gave her significant power, authority, and respect. She took full advantage. She had a voice that carried - when she spoke, people listened. Her voice said she was a voice of GOD. Above all, she wasn't just a mother superior of _any_ convent. They were survivors. a convent that survived the tumultuous years of being forbidden in Cuba.

The plane came into view. It rocked and adjusted as it got lower and lower. In a minute it was taxiing to a hanger. Beatrice walked, then ran, to meet the Father. Once at the entrance, he emerged from the plane. Bald head shining, he waved. He was young and loved the Lord something fierce because he believed in redemption, salvation, and forgiveness. And men need the most of all that.

He huffed and opened the cargo door. The gurney was waiting for them.

"You have the van?" They spoke English to each other over Spanish. A method for secrecy.

"Yes," she said, pointing across the hangar. "Package… survived?"

"Let's see. I'm alone as you see."

Beatrice climbed aboard to check the package. She saw immediately the gurney and the man on the stretcher had been well-secured in the hold of the plane. She saw the fluids, oxygen, and a portable monitor. She watched the numbers on the screen after a quick look at the soot-covered face. Numbers were steady. Not strong, but not weak either.

"It's been nearly eight hours since the bombing," Paolo said. "It's a miracle he's alive."

Beatrice sighed and ran a hand over the man's forehead. He was cold to the touch. His eyes were shut and he did not respond in any way to her touch.

"Any assessment?" She asked.

Paolo shook his head. "Not a lot of time. The driver secured him and had to run. I was told he was in the bombing, that the home collapsed around him. Story is, he's to be let go if he goes into cardiac arrest."

"Let's get him to hospital. No more talk of letting him go. He's cold and I don't know how well he's breathing."

Paolo had a look of concern. "Sister, the driver told me he's a very dangerous man. I know that—"

Beatrice put a hand up to silence her friend and studied the injured man. She lowered the covering. Tattoos were evident, and blood covered much of his torso and the left side of his head. She searched for and then found what the Police Chief promised her. She reached down and picked at the pendant on a chain around his neck. She rubbed the soot from the face of the saint.

 _Santo Pancracio_ looked to the heavens, the patron saint of children, mostly of teenagers. He was a martyr who died at fourteen years of age.

Beatrice glanced at Paolo. He had a conciliatory expression on his face. She said a quick prayer and made the sign of the cross on the forehead of the patient. "He is Catholic or he is loved by someone Catholic. He is deserving. Let's go. He's poorly."

There was no argument. Three long hours later, the mysterious patient was being prepped for the first of several surgeries required to save his life. The hospital records showed him as "Angel Victor."

Beatrice called her right-hand worker, Sister Maria, after she watched the nurse take the patient into surgery to address the most immediate problem of internal bleeding and a swelling of the brain. Setting bones would have to wait.

"We have a new occupant," she said. English of course. Secrecy. "Make sure the tower room is ready. I don't know what his recovery will be like but it will be a while. Let the sisters know. No judgment. He needs us."

They did not know who, other than the chief of police, was the guardian of the patient. Only time would tell. Around midnight, the surgeon sat with Beatrice in the hospital room. Only the sounds of the monitor could be heard. The Baracoa hospital was a small place. Only a single story and the tiny population did not spend a lot of time here.

"He's supposed to be awake," the surgeon said, "but he's not. Brain injury might be severe."

"A coma then."

"Yes. You have the equipment to care for him, if the coma continues?"

"Of course. You have assured me his privacy?"

"Nobody has taken note of him. Angel was injured in a construction accident."

Beatrice nodded. "Let us pray."

A week later, the man who the sisters called Angel lay peacefully in a tower room that overlooked the bay.

The former monastery had been built in the 1700s and now served as a convent to the order of _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia._ The Sisters of Mercy. Convents were prohibited for many years but these sisters never followed that rule. They were revolutionaries. Their mission was to serve the fighters for justice. Their newest guest was just such a fighter in Beatrice's eyes. She knew exactly who he was, and his great crime.

"He is deserving of mercy," she said whenever a sister got curious.

The convent was sprawling and had many hidden corridors and secret rooms and was built out of the stones that could be found throughout Baracoa. The city itself was alive and well with tourists, American military, and old Cuban natives. They walked the streets and kept Baracoa the beautiful place it was.

Every day, Sister Maria or Sister Barbara or whichever sister volunteered washed the patient's body and fed him through a feeding tube. He was indeed angelic in his long sleep. They moved him often to prevent bed sores. They stretched his muscles and limbs. They read scripture to him. They played classical music. A cat spent time lounging near him, on top of him, purring. The sun came up and set, lighting the tower room in the day and washing it in brilliant orange in the afternoon. At night, lamps lit the room with a gentle vanilla. The windows were opened during the day and closed at night. The rotating sisters who watched over him never saw him open his eyes or move a muscle. But everyone knew he was alive and aware and it was only a matter of time.

His only constant companion aside from the Baracoa sea air was a yellow canary that sang as it perched on a bamboo step inside an iron cage in the corner of the room.

Only that bird saw that at midnight, every midnight, Angel Victor would watch the bird sing her midnight song to the moon, a song about her cage, and that his eyes were the most beautiful color she'd ever seen… all the colors of the earth beyond the window, beyond the cage.

Blue, green, brown.

 **To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**_Caged: Reclamation_**

 **Chapter 3**

 _You fucker. You fucking bastard. I fucking hate you. And I fucking hate your cigarettes. Shoulda killed you ages ago._

The morning was a chilled one and Téa apologized to Rolon and the young man sitting in the chairs in front of her desk. Rolon held an unlit cigarette and kept putting it in his mouth and then out. Over and over. Nervousness maybe. She recognized the Camel brand, no filter, same as what Todd smoked. She stood at the thermostat, fussing with it. Her focus lost.

 _That fucking cigarette._

She thought she heard a click and then just hoped the heat would come. For all her effort at banishment, _he_ was still inside of her, around her. Reminders constantly. Even the curses in her head were really _him_. His kind of talk. His favorite words.

 _Fuck._

She'd seen them waiting outside in the hallway. She'd been running late. The kids had been needy and it was hard to get away she found. Lucia looked at her with those hazel-colored eyes and long chestnut-colored locks in her face and Téa felt a surge of crippling guilt. Like she was personally responsible for the tragedies that had befallen her daughter. She'd gotten to her knees, fell to her knees, and just held her. "I'm sorry, _preciosa,_ " she said. In that instant, she wondered if an adult Lucia would forgive her for shooting her father and driving him into Cuba. She wondered if she would further forgive her father for _his_ crimes.

She wondered if she, Téa Delgado, would forgive the same things. When the curses came, her hate for Todd, his ashes, his dying, she had her answer.

 _Not now. No forgiveness. Not for anyone._

She sat at her desk and moved the mouse until the screen popped on. She entered her passcode and then hunted for the intake docs. She shivered in her coat. Looked around a second, listening for the tell-tale whoosh of the heater. She shoved an old-fashioned ashtray towards Rolon, an Atlantic City thing from way back.

"Either light up or toss it," Téa snipped. "You're bugging me."

"Sorry, _amorcita."_ He dropped the thing in the ashtray.

The kid spoke up. "Why don't you get a helper or somethin'? I saw a place out there for someone."

Now she studied her new client. He was talking about the empty desk in the small lobby of her rented suite. Observant thing. Able to deduce that desk as _empty_. As in no worker at all. The kid was over 18 she knew but he was on the smallish side. Baby face, dark brown hair, brown eyes. He was black and she assumed he was Cuban if he was MK. He dressed in new store-bought work clothes: black pants, non-slip black shoes, a white shirt under a wool coat. If it wasn't for his blasé attitude, Téa imagined he'd be one of Todd's workers in prison.

 _Vulnerable. Breakable._

She shook her head, gazing at the boy on whom the coat appeared too big. "Not today," she said. "Took a day off."

"Look like you need someone to me," he muttered. Rolon gave him a side eye, a warning glance.

His name was Arien Gomez and he'd gotten into the Mambo Kings gang because of a brother. "Cuz of the green," he said. _Money._ His only motivation. Supposedly. Rolon smoothed his beard, a trim one that softened his face, that made his bald head and neck tattoos less imposing. But he couldn't lessen his intimidation no matter how hard he tried. Too husky, too dark a look in his green eyes. He shot a glance at Téa, the two sharing a moment.

She stopped typing. Sat back and crossed her arms. "And dealing drugs to your friends is going to make you money?"

Arien got indignant. "Over time, yo!"

Rolon slapped the kid on the side of his head and the kid looked shocked, yelping, "Da fuck, Ro?!"

"Show _La Señora Delgado_ respect. _Respeto_!"

Arien rubbed his head and he remained quiet through the rest of the meeting. He'd be pleading not-guilty, Téa going after the search, a poor reading of his _Miranda_ rights, other technical errors. She would meet the prosecutors to get a feel on a plea— chances were though they'd throw the book at the kid unless he gave higher-up names. That was where her ethics trapped her. She _should_ pull out all the stops at defending him.

Except maybe names would be good. Throw MK people into prison. Let poor Arien be manipulated by the prosecution.

Afterwards, Rolon saw to a cab to get the kid home and then he ran back to Téa's office. She had a stony expression on her face as he collapsed on the chair.

"Are you kidding?" she snapped. "Heroin? I thought MK backed off selling drugs to kiddies. Thought you all left that to scavenger gangs like _Los Serranos_ or the Riders."

"Yeah well… _Serranos_ don't exist no more so… market opened back up. I also… think maybe Pedro got a bit slack since… you know."

Rolon took in Téa's freshly delicate features. She'd lost weight and it cut into his heart because it had been an agonizing two months of grieving that brought this fragile look to her. She wasn't that way and yet…

He tried to be everything to her, a comfort but also a willing punching bag. He checked on her almost every day, visited once a week. Listened to her rants. She hated MK and how could he argue? They killed her husband, father to her young kids. _Jesus._ It wasn't just her life that _Blanco_ had blown up. For him too. MK was wrecked, done. He was adrift. Learning about Pedro's involvements with Manuel Caro had poisoned MK for him and Pedro knew that. He remained King, and in that, released Rolon from all obligations to them.

" _You will always be an MK son, but you're free now."_

" _You are sure of this? I won't find a knife in my back?"_

" _You have paid your dues. Go be a new man to our young Cuban children."_

" _A new man. Who's that Pedro?"_

" _Up to you now."_

Easier said than done.

Téa stood and walked to Rolon, his eyes shining with endless sympathy. _Pity._ For the first time she understood Todd's rejection of that. She imagined what he'd say. Now.

 _Do I see pity? Fuck you. Why don't you fix the world that made me instead of just feeling sorry for me?_

She straddled Rolon and wrapped her arms around him and the chair creaked with the joined weight. She buried her head in his neck. "You're warm," she whispered. He held her, gently, and when she said, "Tighter," he did exactly that. They stayed in the hug a long time. It wasn't the first time she reached out to him this way. It wasn't sexual. But he'd do whatever because she never asked for any of this. _Blanco_ had done her wrong. By getting caught up in MK, by lying to her for years about all the shit he was doing, but mostly by dying.

After a bit, she sighed and returned to her desk like nothing. Her gaze was heavy.

"What, _mamita?"_

"Arien needs a better opportunity than heroin."

"I offered work in my shop. He refused because MK showed him a better future: money, cred, a family. Can't argue."

 _Family._

"Is he smart? Good at school?"

"I don't know — he likes…" He chuckled, a bit perplexed. "He… uh… how do you say… he's uh…a game player? Plays games. Video games. His family can't afford the games and he likes money for that."

"So he's smart."

"Could be. He's a stupid kid to me. Stupid to deal, stupid to get caught. Why?"

She studied Rolon and he let her. " _Family_ , you said. Did Todd see MK that way? Like... _family_?"

Rolon rubbed his head, her tone cold, the question hitting him low, catching him off guard. He shrugged. "Long time ago, I would have said he did. _Pero…_ I don't know shit anymore about him. I used to believe he grew to love his brothers like any other MK soldier. Stupid I think, now. He had no choice back in Statesville. We forced him in. Otherwise he'd have been killed. He was too reckless. Too unpredictable. So we put him on a leash to keep using him." He looked at Téa, guiltily. Ashamed.

"Use the right word, Rolon. You, MK, Pedro… _abused_ him."

Rolon sniffed loudly. His lips twitched, a blink of his eyes.

"Say it. You _abused_ him."

Rolon grunted, huffed. "I loved him like a brother, Téa. More than anyone in MK. I left MK for him, for you, to be something different. _Téa, mamita_ …" He groaned and held his head in his hands. A horrible truth he hated then flowed out like vomit.

"Yes, we _abused_ him. We used his epilepsy against him. I told our leader about his fits because they thought he was raping those kids he protected and they wanted him dead for that… but then… we knew what we had with that information. See he was good for us. Kept us on top with the shit he knew, all the dirt he had on _everyone._ With the epilepsy as the whip, we could manage him, control him. Any time he tried to stand up, to change things in Statesville for himself… we threatened him with those kids' lives, and his epilepsy. He had enemies that would have liked to know how vulnerable he was. How killable. Pedro paid off the prison doctor to keep it out of his record, to never say _epilepsy_ around other inmates. _Blanco_ didn't even know that. But we went farther. We reminded him that he was behind bars and he was only one person… but you, his Lucia, Jedediah, Starr… you all were outside ...and so were we." Rolon was watery-eyed, his own horror at how they'd treated Todd all over him. " _Jesucristo, Téa…_ I am so sorry." He got up and was then on his knees next to her… hands reaching to her. " _Téa… por favor… perdóname, perdóname…"_

"Us. And his seizures…," she murmured.

 _He was afraid of this, you know...the one thing in that motherfuckin' hell that really scared him. Lying here, like this, with someone who wanted him dead._

Téa remembered Rolon telling her about Todd's fear, there in that underground tunnel. Téa never did get the context of it. Never did know the full story of just how Rolon got to understand that fear. Todd always presented MK as something he needed to make sure he'd survive Statesville. To prevent him from catching a death penalty case for Horenda's killing. He always made it sound like they were an unfortunate necessity. He'd come home because of them! _Babe! Honey! Love of my life!_

He never explained the threats to him or to her and the kids. Never said the enemy he feared most was _MK_ standing over him. He lied about that. Of course he did. He wouldn't dare besmirch the grand reputation of his savior, his _father_ , Pedro.

Peter.

 _You fucking bastard. You coward. What… afraid that I would see how evil these assholes were? Or worse, afraid that I would see the boy in you, your fear, your vulnerability? That you were in fact just like Diego, Smithy, Brandy. Rico. Not just words but a very real truth._

 _God damn it, baby, I could have helped you. I could have—_

Rolon cried openly. Unabashedly. Téa closed her eyes and turned and then his head was in her lap and his hard hands were on her waist and he squeezed her to him. She couldn't touch him now. Hard to believe minutes ago she wanted those arms around her. He disgusted her. His… confession… brought her bottomless hate to her throat. Bloody tears threatened to take over, to fucking drown her, but she cut them off.

 _No pity. No tears. If you start crying you'll never stop. You'll fucking die in the ocean of tears you'll create._

She felt Todd behind her, his cigarette smoke encircling her. Ghostly fingers dug into her shoulders. More voiceless words spilled into her ear.

 _Whatcha gonna do, Delgado? Where's that hate gonna go? What house are YOU gonna blow to kingdom come?_

"Stop, stop…," she said softly, sighing raggedly.

Rolon fell back on his ass. Wiped his face. Rubbed it hard like he could rub the guilt off. He shouted wordlessly into his hands, a short clipped yell of anger.

"Too late now to have the re-gret, _Lopez,_ " she said. "That was some unconscionable bullshit you did to him. _You_. What did you call him? Your _brother._ What a sick joke. Don't ever call him that again."

He begged her to give him dispensation, forgiveness. "I tried to make it up to him. Tried to do everything I could to help him. I swear on my mother's life!"

"Does that include—"

"Don't say it. I shot him up with heroin. I know, I know. You should hate me. I failed him. And I failed you."

"Well that ends everything, doesn't it? I shot him too. Twice. With bullets. So... who am I to judge?"

 _Where's that hate… gonna go?_

After some minutes of miserable unresolvable quiet, she reached in a lower desk drawer and pulled out a leather bound ledger. A _Serrano_ client had given it to her. She'd planned on bringing Pedro down with it but things moved in a different direction since then. Holding the thing to her chest, she said, "This is a road map to MK. It goes back a few years. It's in Pedro's handwriting I think. It implicates Todd, suggests his participation in realigning drug and gambling operations. So I can't turn it over to police. Doesn't feel right. Even though that implication means nothing since my husband is _deceased_."

Rolon was silent. What could he say? He remembered Téa mentioning this book. He remembered the book going missing. Was still kind of floored that a _Serrano_ got it. Might explain how they knew about the underground St. Francis club where Leticia was killed and Gannon's club.

"Why did the kid give it to you? And how did he get it?"

"Well, on your first question, he was afraid. He was just a kid. He used the information to protect himself from his _brothers._ Leverage. They didn't know where he got the information from. He thought it would be safer in my hands."

He grunted in understanding. "And my other question?"

"A bitter daughter."

Rolon eyed Téa a moment or two. "Leya?"

"Yes, she was playing with fire, got herself a _Serrano_ boyfriend. Thought she was being… edgy… hard… and stole it from her daddy's office. Gave it to her boyfriend."

"Jesus CHRIST."

She glared at Rolon, getting him to focus on her once again.

"I'm trying to decide how to end Pedro Moreno. Because really he's the ultimate cause of Todd's death. The _causa supersedeas,_ the supervening cause. So… should it be from the inside of MK… or from the outside?"

" _What are you saying?"_ He spoke in Spanish. Stressed now. Confused.

" _You heard me. I want to end Pedro Moreno. And I'm asking, should it be done from the outside of MK? Or from the inside?"_

It took a few moments for her words to sink in.

 _Is Arien smart? Good in school?_

"What do you mean… _end_?" She had used the word, _acabar,_ which tended towards "eradication" or "termination" in English depending on how it was used. He looked at her, at fragility draping iron. He was still and breathless, caught mid-flight in the icy storm of her eyes.

"I mean," she said, "... I want to take things away from him. I want him wishing he was dead because he has lost _everything._ I want to tear his heart out with my bare hands and _eat_ it. _And I believe his heart… is MK."_

More beats of a deadly silence. A clock ticked from the lobby outside her office. The city noise poured in through cheap commercial windows. Then Rolon said, "If you want to destroy MK, do it from the inside, Téa. Do it… from the inside."

* * *

Ian Correa talked like a speeding train, half in Spanish, and Bo could hardly get a word in edgewise even to ask for clarity. He was a young reporter for an underground Havana newspaper, handsome guy with curls and dreamy eyes that Nora had commented on fairly immediately. They were at the Buchanan home because the moment Bo heard _underground_ that previous day in his glass-walled office _,_ he had stopped the man from saying another word and directed him to meet outside the police station.

 _Meet me tomorrow at my home at 1:00. We'll talk then. We'll have lunch._

Nora placed a tray of sandwiches on the coffee table in their living room and Ian smiled and bobbed his head and drank his Coke. He delicately picked up a tuna sandwich and smiled in thanks. Nora sat queenly on a fancy high-expense silken chair brought in from New York City, apart from Bo who was on the country-style love seat with galloping-horses fabric and Ian who was on the larger couch with the same galloping-horses. She munched on the sandwich, interested in the commotion. She was there as a lawyerly ear. An objective observer. Sort of.

 _What could possibly be wrong with the investigation? In Cuba? Something wrong? End sarcasm._

Bo cleared his throat as he sipped on the ginger ale. Good for his stomach and all that. He looked at the neatly cut tea sandwich. Cucumber. He glanced at Nora and eyed the sandwich sadly. Ate it anyway. She was on an English tea kick again. Inspired by a royal wedding or something.

"Ian… slow down, son. Explain how you got to me. My name isn't in any paper that I know of. Pennsylvania is pretty far off the investigations going on in Havana."

Ian smiled, finished chewing. "Of course, yes, hush hush. Uh… yes… how I connected you and the bombing—"

Nora spoke up, "The Commissioner isn't involved in the bombing."

Ian laughed, "No, no, of course not. I start at the beginning. Yes?"

Bo and Nora both said, "Yes," relief in their voices. "Slowly," they both added.

"On the day of the bombing, I saw suspicious activity by my government. A strange van, an airport… _bla, bla, bla… pues_ I started following every newspaper article on the bombing in America because our press is government-owned, best to look at American press—"

"Why American? Canada was brought in, so was Mexico, and I think a European country…"

"Belgium," Nora volunteered.

"Ah…Belgium." Bo turned back to Ian. Questioning again.

Ian continued. "The lead man in this case in all the articles was American. Benicio Juarez. Your FBI. Any real useful news would be in American papers even if Belgium is focus. When I tried to find Juarez to talk, I learned he worked out of Philadelphia, _Pennsylvania_. I thought that was strange, why not Washington D.C.? I did a … curiosity search… eh… cross-referencing Havana and Pennsylvania and found a tiny article in a local paper of a man who died in Havana who was a resident of Llanview, _Pennsylvania_. It was a strange coincidence since his date of death was the same date as the bombing. How unusual. An American drops dead in Havana, across town, on the very same day as the biggest bombing to hit Cuba in decades? I do not think any American has died in Cuba in… decades."

He had his hands out, as if saying _come on!_

When Bo and Nora did not seem to clue in, he recomposed himself. "Sir, I come to you because I am certain you are in charge of investigating the death of that Llanview man, Todd Manning, who died in Havana on the same day as the bombing."

Bo nodded and scratched his head. "I am."

"Wonderful news! I think he is alive."

Bo and Nora choked on their drinks. This was news Nora wasn't thrilled to hear. "We have ashes, a death certificate—"

"Oh excellent news. I would like to see the death certificate. My government… they cover up things. Why pretend Mr. Manning is dead if he is not?"

Bo cleared his throat, Nora looking aghast and muttering, "Oh he's dead. Better be dead. Better stay dead."

The muttering continued and Bo knew he lost his objective observer. He cleared his throat again, "Why _would_ the government pretend he's dead. Is he a prisoner?"

"Yes, it could be. He might have government secrets, he might be a suspected spy, many possibilities. I don't know for sure he's alive. I do know there was a survivor of the bombing. This I know. I saw a van leave the bombing site, stop a while. Then leave to the airport. Not the Havana airport, but one almost an hour out of Havana. Small airport. Used by government. I saw a patient removed from the van to the airplane headed to… Guantanamo Bay. That's _your_ government."

"Jesus Christ," Bo hissed. "I'm still a detective, son. One question. Did you ever lose sight of the van, in between the bombing site and the airport?"

Ian blinked in thought, the barest of dejection on his face. "Yes. I lost them for maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. They parked."

Bo crinkled his face, shaking his head, "Weak at best that the patient is from the bombing. The van—"

"The van, an undercover government van, backed up into the back access to the site. The doors to the van were opened and then shut. They put… eh… something in the back. I could not see."

"Instructions, equipment, who knows, in preparation to pick up a third party. Do you have anything other than what you saw? Fifteen minutes is a long time to not see where that van was. They were parked?"

"Yes, parked. Yes, they made a stop before going to the airport. True. I did not have my eyes on them."

"So they could have picked someone up."

Ian agreed. Possibly. "The thirteen who died include a… John Doe, as you say in your American terminology. No identification. It is strange that 12 (12!) are identified and not the one. Why? It makes no sense. They were all very bad criminals. They all had been caught and released… a pattern clearly… _y_ _este uno_ … John Doe? Burned to nothing? Not even teeth? Some had the teeth…eh… the fingerprints _y_ DNA. No way to say? Nah… no! My government is up to something but maybe so is yours."

Bo sat quietly for some minutes. No doubt the whole thing stank. He knew much he wasn't sharing. But that a total outsider with a little observation could guess that Manning was alive? That… could not be ignored.

Bo was dressed casually, jeans, cowboy boots. A button-down shirt with a turquoise bolo tie. It was the tie he rubbed in between his forefinger and thumb. The gold chain was on his mind. He had assumed the Cuban government was correct that the thirteenth body was Todd Manning and that they called it John Doe for all the reasons they did. Political garbage. He was okay that Manning's presence at the bombing was kept secret.

Didn't care?

That wasn't true. The lie was awful. The truth was awful. When he looked at the faces of Manning's children, and he did when he visited Viki who cared for them quite often, the death of Todd Manning lost its justice. He was their father and Bo knew he was a loving father, even a good one, especially to the little ones. But even Starr and Jed who developed more rocky relationships with their dad… well they lost their dad too. Starr felt it the worst. She had fought with Manning over his going to Cuba, disowned him, she said. Then had her heart broken, knowing it was a luxury to be mad at her dad.

It broke Bo's heart. He knew loss all too well. And especially knew loss of people with whom one had a difficult relationship.

He watched as Nora questioned Ian in what he knew, how he knew it, and what he was going after next. Bo promised to send him the death certificate. There was a lot of work to do. And he'd help where he could.

He did have a word in his head as he walked Ian to the taxi.

 _Ashes._

They could test Todd Manning's ashes. They could. But the thought of telling Téa that her husband might be alive… the chances were absurdly small… the possibility of such a thing. He reached for Nora's hand. Squeezed it.

"No more cucumber sandwiches."

She chuckled and kissed him on the nose.

* * *

Sister Maria lovingly held her patient's hand in hers as she read her favorite psalms. She sat on a wooden chair next to his bed. The day was beautiful and the canary sang towards the window while the cat swung her tail in the windowsill. _La Gata_ would soon make her way to the patient and curl up either at his side or in between his legs or on his belly. She seemed to like him. Maybe because he never shooed her away. Angel Victor did not chase the cat or press the sister's hand or respond in any way to the sister's musical voice. He didn't open his eyes, he didn't twitch, and he definitely didn't make a sound.

He was freshly washed, his body soaped and scrubbed and massaged and then gently soothed with lotion. His left wrist, arm, ribs, hip, and his leg too, seemed to have recovered from their broken states. His insides too. No bleeding, good vitals. He'd been to x-ray, and the bones seemed stitched. Tests had been run. A brain scan was done. He had a feeding tube implanted in his stomach this last visit to hospital. Better than the kind going down his throat. Less irritation. He'd do better.

They'd cut his hair and beard. He had a little scruff on his face now. Facial hair grew fast on him. His hair had been long, long strands of silver throughout. Now he was shorn. Like a summer sheep. She ran her hand over his head, fingertips massaging him. Scars were visible on his freshly buzzed scalp. He had countless more all over his body. It was disconcerting. She thought he looked like an inked warrior from long ago. That was a much preferable image than any truth behind these scars.

She closed the psalm book and put it into her bag at her feet. A sheet covered his naked body. It was easier to care for him that way. They were careful with him even though he was in the perpetual sleep, especially because of it, assuring as much modesty as they could give him, being respectful since he could not reject or defend or choose not to be touched or looked at. Mother Superior Beatrice insisted. Of course. It was the right thing. Dignity is sometimes all a man has left.

He suffered seizures two or three times a week at first. They finally figured out the right medication. He'd been seizure-free for seven days and that was good. Maria continued to study his face. He was handsome despite the deep scar on his cheek. His knees were up, pillows beneath. He'd be turned soon. To avoid the bed sores. The sisters were very careful with the sheets. No creases or folds to irritate him. They would all lift him and turn him.

He was their responsibility and they took it as seriously as they took all their duties.

There was much work here at _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia_. They cared for the convent itself, cleaning and so forth. Cared for their garden, the wine they made and sold from their small vineyard, tended the chickens and the cows, and did the shopping to feed and maintain all the sisters here. But they also ran a clinic for the Baracoa community, for the local residents. The clinic operated in the more public part of the convent.

Angel was in the lesser-known upper floor of the tower. Three stories up. To get here to this room and to the chapel next door, one had to know _how_ to get here. A secret passageway.

Maria turned to Mother Superior Beatrice who opened the heavy wooden door to the room. The two women nodded to each other. They'd known each other since they were novices nearly thirty years ago, Maria young and in her teens at the time, Beatrice near 30 having just finished medical school. Both knew they had a calling for the underdogs of the world and for rebellion. They both were troublemakers and they both were sent here to serve the most rebellious of convents.

Maria stood up, then jumped, clapping her hands and running to their guest.

" _Raquel! I am so pleased to see you!"_

 _La Doctora_ from Havana hugged Maria back. Tightly.

" _You look beautiful, Maria, radiant!"_

" _It's the love of Christ!"_

The women laughed at their usual greeting and they all looked at their other guest who made whimpering noises and was tearing away from Raquel.

" _Go, go, love, go to him."_

Abram the black pit bull terrier ran to Angel on the bed. He sniffed and sniffed and licked and whimpered and then he knew his person was not responding and he barked at the women to do something.

Raquel sighed and looked helplessly at Beatrice and Maria. Beatrice understood but Maria did not. Beatrice explained, " _Abram belongs to Angel. His job is to guard him, and protect him if he has a seizure. He thinks he has had one and isn't responding."_

Raquel was with Abram on the bed, calming him. The dog curled up and put his heavy head on Angel's shoulder. He licked his face every so often. Not being able to help herself, Maria cried and used her habit to wipe at her eyes.

Raquel turned to Beatrice, " _He is still in a coma then?"_

" _He has not awakened,"_ she said. " _The reports though say he should be waking up. There is consciousness, or something. He is not in a vegetative state. The doctors at hospital say that."_

Raquel was Beatrice's blood sister. When the bombing happened, when she heard it was a gas explosion, she knew her contact had come through for _Blanco._ She had been in the room when Téa Delgado got confirmation that her husband had died in that bombing. She had held the quaking woman as she fell to pieces and then… as she shut down. As the tears dried, as the anger began to ferment.

Everyone had left Havana except Abram. He was bereft and confused and refused to leave Raquel's side. The night that Téa left Havana with her baby Esperanza, Raquel sat in her own room above her little cafe, next to her illegal clinic, with Abram in her arms and she had cried too. Cried for Rico, for Téa and the young man Jedediah, and then for _Blanco_ himself.

She didn't think he deserved to die with those awful people. He was not one of them.

Beatrice then called.

Very short work for the two women to put two and two together based on their individual bits of information, to realize exactly who Beatrice had taken on as a patient at the request of Pedro Moreno by way of the Havana Police Chief.

 _Blanco_ , Todd Manning, was alive. Barely. Supposedly. Raquel wouldn't believe it until she saw him for herself. She told Beatrice at the time, " _I'll leave tomorrow,"_ but her sister refused. Prohibited.

" _You come when I say. I must protect him."_

So Raquel had to wait. Until now. A little over two months since the bombing. She looked at _Blanco's_ face and she caressed his cheek. It was definitely him. But was this alive?

" _Oh you miracle of a man. Your family will certainly want you home!"_ She turned to Beatrice. " _Why is he here? Why are you not sending him home?! Sister… this is immoral!"_

Beatrice sat at another chair. Stared firmly at Raquel. " _From all we know, he did a righteous thing. He ended the lives of murderers, child traffickers. Predators. He might be executed for it however. You know that. And it would be wrong."_

" _Revenge is wrong but there might be a defense. He should be with his family! You do not know the hurt they are enduring! Beatrice, you are not being reasonable!"_

" _I will not send a man to be executed! He needs to make his own decision on that. He is conscious. He is aware. He was sent to me by God. I do not ignore a calling."_

" _He is in a coma."_

" _No."_

Raquel groaned. _"There you go with your ridiculous ideas. Science, woman, science!"_

" _Coma is a willed state of being. He needs silence, he needs rest. He is demanding it and I am giving it. When he is ready to make a decision, he will wake."_

" _You are just as crazy as ever."_

Beatrice smiled and grabbed her sister's hand. " _I have missed you. Do not worry. He is in God's hands,_ my _hands. All of us here, even La Gata y la pajarita, we are all here to keep him safe and peaceful while he heals. He will face a hard decision and we will be here still for whatever path he chooses."_

" _What are you saying?"_

" _He will either choose home or he will choose a new identity here. He can remain with us for the rest of his life."_

Raquel laughed. A burst of laughter. _"You don't know your patient. When he wakes, if he ever wakes, you will have a crazy man on your hands. I know him. He is no priest."_

Maria looked at the sleeping man in the bed, at the eyes of the dog staring back at her. " _He is a warrior, Raquel. We know warriors and there is always room for them in our world."_

Raquel groaned and slapped the air with her hands, _"Another crazy nun. He is a killer. Do you understand? He is full of the darkest anger and hurt and… hate. He is called El Diablo Blanco. You call him Angel! He is the devil!"_

" _And yet,"_ Beatrice said _, "You are here, bringing him his dog and maintaining your silence. You do not agree he is the devil. You would have sounded the alarm two months ago."_

" _Maybe. He has a good heart but... it's deep and hidden and atrophied. Like this room. And if nobody can find that good heart, if nobody can unlock it, then what good is it? It's as if it's not there."_

" _God sent him here,"_ Beatrice concluded, _"God knows the choices. And so will Angel."_

Raquel stayed in that room that night. And stayed the rest of the week. She had a little cot and helped care for him. She could not stop thinking of Téa. She felt guilty. Everyone then agreed to keep Abram at the convent. They could use a dog, and they knew he'd be good for Angel. And Angel would be good for Abram. Even with his person's silence, Abram slept better and ate better.

The sisters, _las doctoras,_ argued all week on the coma question. Willed or not willed. Vegetative or not. Physical or spiritual. Or was it a form of catatonia which he had a history of? The depth of his sleep was profound, Raquel noted, likely permanent. That led to the bigger argument that he should be returned home.

" _Look how he turns his arms inward and draws his knees up,"_ Raquelargued _, "how he tightens his fists, how he cannot swallow. He doesn't respond to pain or loud noises. Hold his nose and mouth and he does not fight for air. Even a person who is catatonic will allow themselves to be posed! Hold their arm up and they will leave it there. Not him. He has no reflex. Nothing. This is terrible. He should be at home, allowed to die while surrounded by those who love him. The tube should be removed. Sister, my precious sister, you are bordering on cruelty. His wife, his family, should be allowed to tend to his dying body."_ She looked pleadingly at Beatrice, on the verge of tears, a hand on her shoulder. " _We touch him most intimately, to care for him. His wife should have the choice of that."_

Beatrice was not unmoved by Raquel. But she had spent two months in prayer and two months in observation. With a look of affection, she repeated her position.

" _His pupils are responsive to light. No delay. That very small reflex that does not abate, has not changed from the first time I saw him, tells me God knows more than you do."_

They dragged out medical books, psychiatric books, mystical books, and all Angel's medical test results. The other sisters just avoided the whole thing and taste-tested the wines as they came to readiness. There was no agreement.

On her last night at the convent, Raquel was awake for the midnight song of the canary. She sat up in her cot and listened and thought how beautiful the song was and how very different it was from the morning songs and when she turned, as if to share her thoughts with _Blanco,_ she gasped at the sight of his light eyes. He wasn't watching the bird but looking directly at Raquel.

" _Blanco! Todd!"_

She threw off the bed covers and ran to his side. He said nothing. Just looked at her. He blinked in a gentle way, an intentional way. She could tell he studied her eyes, slipped down her nose to her lips, moved to her cheeks and then on to her thick gray braids that she wore on top of her head like a crown. She could have sworn he swept her hips, searching for the blade she usually carried at her side. He followed her as she moved away then close again.

She called to him over and over and still he stayed quiet. Then with one last purposeful gaze into her eyes, he seemed to direct her to join him in watching the bird. He then watched the canary sing, her chest puffed towards the moon, dancing on her perch as close to the iron rods of the cage's walls as she could get, until she fell silent.

He closed his eyes at that and didn't respond again.

Raquel knew then that Beatrice was right. He had put himself into a state of restful sleep and he would not awaken until he was ready to face what he'd done, those who remained alive of his enemies, and above all, his family.

Beatrice… was right. _Blanco,_ Todd,was alive and aware and he would know the choices he had...

… because God had most definitely sent him to the Sisters of Mercy.

 **To be continued….**


	4. Chapter 4

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 4**

He heard the bird sing every night. It was her heartfelt sorrow that had awakened him. She cried because she could not leave the cage to reclaim her lost love. He knew this because of the words to the song. He knew she was small, yellow, and fluffy—he could see her. He figured she was a canary. He loved her poetry, her puffed chest, and how her little beak reached toward the outside. But he wasn't sure canaries actually lived outside cages. He racked his brain for some recall of canary lives and came up empty.

 _Maybe your love is dead. You are singing to no one. There is no point to your song._

That thought sent him back to the pitch black and silence. On and on he'd drift until her song started again.

Every time he opened his eyes there was more to see. First it was the songbird alone. Then her cage. Then it was the earthy walls and ceiling. Then it was the windows and the moon. He'd awaken in a strange room and watch her and listen. And then…

 _Maybe your love is dead._

And back to the black.

At first, it was all darkness with little to see or hear or feel. Then he was floating in an underground river in a cave on something unidentifiable but then his inherent knowledge of _things_ said it was like an inner tube. He just floated, head back, eyes on the rocky ceiling. He dragged his fingertips in the warm water, hands sometimes sliding along a mossy rock wall next to him. He drifted without purpose, without direction. Sometimes he wondered where he was going, where he'd been, but only in a mildly curious way. He didn't really care. He felt good and relaxed and was blissfully free of hunger or thirst or even the very human need of going to the bathroom. He was like a vampire from TV. And he worked out the biology of it. Like... they weren't even breathing because they were technically dead. No heartbeat.

That was him, wasn't it?

 _Oh shit, I don't think I'm breathing! Am I? Oh wait. Yeah. Never mind._

Drift, drift, drift.

And then the song started and he was kind of awake in a darkened room with earthy walls and round-edged windows and a moon and the singing canary in an iron cage…

 _Maybe your love is dead._

Back to the cave.

One night he saw a woman next to him. She looked familiar and he knew she carried a blade at her side. He didn't know how he knew that, he just did. He searched for the blade and it wasn't there. He tried talking to her because he thought maybe she was his mother except he had no idea what his mother looked like. He thought she was talking to him but he didn't understand a thing she said and he didn't think she could hear _him_ so he settled back to listen to the song.

 _She is dead maybe so why do you still sing?_

Back to the cave.

One day things changed. He felt strange sensations all over his body in that cave, as if hands touched him, rubbed him. No hands that he could see. It made him anxious and he hated the feeling of it. He'd jerk all over, making a hell of a splash in the cave's river. And then the feelings would stop until many hours later.

Again and again it happened and every time his discomfort grew worse. He yelled and splashed until the feel dissipated. This last time though, pain came. Oh, god, it was all he could do to survive the sensations. The hands were fiery hot, burning through to his insides. He screamed madly all to no effect. He couldn't make it stop—it simply stopped without his say.

It was then that he began to see a movie playing on the rocky ceiling above him.

The loops were sweet at first, a childhood he recognized as his own. A babyhood. A mother's hold of him. The smell of her, the safety of her. The images were deeply soothing and he felt what he saw down to the depths of him. Something in his head said…

 _Chicago, Illinois._

The loops darkened in the experiences they showed and they made him cry. He understood that the images were real and that these things happened to him. And they happened alongside sweet childlike things. He didn't cry gentle canary tears at that truth. No, he cried a kind of agonizing cry of death. He cried for the permanent loss of the ice cream cones and bicycles and cops-and-robbers TV, of love and happiness, in those bad scenes. He watched helplessly as that child's trust of the world disintegrated into ash. His hopes, his dreams, his fantasies, his beliefs, too. He hardly had a chance to even develop any.

He was destroyed, body, heart, and soul.

 _Chicago, Illinois._

He saw a child try to control the forces that had wrecked him. He saw him seduce his assailants for safety. It didn't work but he tried and tried. He got good at it. He made things hurt less.

 _I can do so many things to you… and you… can do them to me. I won't tell anyone what we do in this room._

And then he found love! Red-headed love. Beautiful love full of ice cream cones and bicycles and cops-and-robbers TV. And then it was gone in a horrible flash and he tried another route to control his world. A violent, furious, vengeful fight that occupied him for years. He got good at that, too.

It also made him cry.

 _Llanview, Pennsylvania._

Much more flowed past him on the ceiling above. A new city, pretty girls, friends, classes, football, more vengeance… prison.

 _Statesville._

Then more love, a marriage, a baby, money, a newspaper business. Another marriage. Then darkness again. Madness. A memory of _Chicago_ bloomed to life that he had forgotten in his travels _._ There was a long descent into hell. _The devil is in the details._ Then… more love, more children. Prison again.

 _Statesville._

A long stint there and another effort at control of the world. _Mambo Kings._ This run at control seemed strangely more successful than his other efforts. More children came. A lot of love. He was swimming in it, rolling in it, drinking it. He was drunk on the love, on the madness of it. And he laughed at the wild head-banging irony that he couldn't control any of it. It was the most beautiful loss of control he had ever known.

 _She was not controllable. She was everything._

It made him cry just as much as the crimes against him made him cry and as much as his own crimes did.

 _Hey, Delgado. Where ya' been my whole life?_

Then a great fall. Two bullets to his chest. God, that hurt. His world once again had been blown to pieces. _Armageddon_. Ashes.

 _Havana, Cuba._

Another love grew there, an orchid in the endless forest. _Dark haunted eyes._ A kindness he never expected on that humid island that had trapped him, a kindness that reached inside of him and squeezed. Hands on bullet wounds. Hands on his heart. A healing love.

 _I love you. I won't say it again._

And _he_ , beautiful he, unwittingly led him back to the other love. _Home. Everything._ So much awaited him. So many possibilities. Such love. Such madness. Such loss of control.

Except...

 _No, no, no, no, baby, please… no..._

She was gone. _She_ , beautiful she, flew through him like an arrow into the forever black. And that arrow pierced his heart, causing the world to disintegrate again. Ash. The only reason he had to keep living on _terra firma_ was gone. Obliterated. His meager, barely there, trust was gone. The wreckage of the arrow to his heart in that _taxi_ was so vast, so complete, he couldn't even cry.

He needed control again and so he made the end happen. He watched the worst of the world, the thieves of trust and love and all that's good, disappear into a hot, fiery, crushing blast of heat. He knew he had taken thirteen evil bastards with him. He was number fourteen.

 _I am the King of HELL._

And here he was, a lonely king, floating on his back in a dark tunnel beneath the earth in warm black water going nowhere fast. The movie played above. The entire, god-forsaken movie, over and over and over.

Jesus… fuckin'… Christ.

 _Stop singing, you fat little bird. There is no goddamn point. Your love is dead. Canaries do not live outside fucking CAGES._

 _And you… whoever you are… with the fuckin' hands..._

 _Stop touching me!_

* * *

Mother Superior Beatrice sighed, disconcerted. The seizures had begun once more. Angel had gone an entire fifteen days without one and now he was in the midst of a grand mal. Three this week. In three days. If it continued, he'd have to be transferred to hospital. The anonymity may have to end.

"Let it run its course," she said. "You can't stop it by holding him."

Sister Maria stepped back, her hands in fists. He was not breathing other than the briefest of clamped intakes of air, his body fully seizing, muscles jerking. She and Sister Ana had already turned him to his side to make sure he didn't choke. Bloody saliva bubbled into the linens.

Ana pulled the pillow away. She whimpered, "It terrifies me!" She could not help herself, tearful at the sight, placing a firm hand on his shorn head and praying fervently with closed eyes and fast-moving lips.

Maria nodded, looking down at him. The sheet that normally covered him had fallen low and the Grim Reaper on his back watched her. She covered its face, her hand loose on hot skin that draped straining muscles. She waited for Angel to take the breath that always eventually came. But that was not a guarantee. Seizures of this sort could bring on cardiac arrest.

"I was hoping that medication would do the trick," she murmured. "Breathe, child, breathe."

The sisters both sighed in relief the moment he finally took a needed noisy more-complete gasp of air.

"Blessings!" Ana blurted, dropping to her knees, forehead to the floor, in a dramatic prayer of thanks just as Raquel arrived.

" _A seizure again?"_

" _Yes!"_ Maria and Ana said.

They had done the usual bath and had been half-way through the massage when the seizure started. It was violent and worrisome. It happened at the same time, every day. Raquel had flown up to consult on just this return of symptoms because she knew him. She had history of him. Beatrice had already had the neurologist consult and he had no more to offer than before. They were reasonably concerned.

Abram had been barking the entire time. Sister Ana crawled to him and got next to him to comfort him, finally quieting him. She put a leash on and, now that danger was averted, they left for a tour of the town. Ana was his designated guardian.

" _What do you think?"_ Beatrice asked as the seizure finally resolved, as it finally let him go. He breathed fast for a bit and then the breaths slowed and he soon settled back into his sleep. He was covered in sweat. Maria mopped his ravaged body.

Raquel grunted, " _Any pattern?"_

" _When the bath occurs."_

" _Well stop the bath. Stop everything and re-introduce one activity at a time."_

She had a suspicion.

The next day, they did not do the usual bathing. They only moved him to avoid the bed sores and fed him the appropriate nutrients through the feeding tube. They tended to the usual evacuation needs.

Raquel and the nuns noted that there was no seizure.

The next day they washed him and there was no seizure. The next day, they massaged his muscles without a bath and he went into a full grand mal again.

Once he was well into his sleep, Raquel moved close and studied his peaceful self. He was on his back and his arms were at his side with pillows there. Pillows under his knees too. Fully restful, the position mimicked floating. His face was handsome, smooth but for the three days growth of a beard. Most noticeable was the complete erasure of the lines he usually wore of worry and hate and judgment. She recalled easily his many months _en La Habana._ Quiet peace like this was only possible through heroin. Even in the arms of his lovers, Rico and Téa, after hours of physical love… he had required drugs to erase the world's assaults on him. She had checked on them the very morning before Téa was taken. She couldn't remember why she needed to enter. Maybe anger. Upset. She'd walked into the room and there they were. She hadn't expected it. It surprised her. The three lay naked, wrapped in each other like ivy on the bed. She'd laughed to herself and then didn't. She knew he'd not had heroin for at least a day and there on that bed, still, even so, lines between his brows and a tight jaw showed he was not free of his war.

Beatrice was at her side along with Maria.

" _He is waking up,"_ Raquel concluded. " _He is responding to pain, to discomfort. The massages hurt, perhaps because of the healing bones on his left side."_

She moved closer still. She glanced at Beatrice and did a common test of pain. She pressed her knuckle hard into his sternum and to the shock of the women, his whole body jerked in response. She did one more test. She pinched his nipple and he responded in the same way.

Beatrice agreed. He was waking up. It had been four months already. It was about time.

" _He does not like to be touched so firmly,"_ Raquel said. She leaned in close to his head and smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. " _You never want things that are good for you. The massage is good for you. Stubborn man."_

Maria didn't understand. " _Pain does not cause seizures."_

Raquel explained, " _Of course. But sometimes extreme stress can trigger a seizure if the brain is so inclined. If he is feeling pain and cannot cry out or seek help or at least gain understanding about the cause of it, he would be very frightened and very stressed."_

" _Ah I see."_

So they adjusted how they worked his muscles. Bathing alone did not trigger the seizure. The lotion did not do it either. The firm massages did. From then on, no therapeutic touching of too much of his body at one time.

And it worked. The seizures stopped.

Another week passed. Raquel returned because Ana had seen him open his eyes during the day, one morning. They decided that because he knew Raquel, that she should be near when and if he should fully wake.

On this late afternoon as Maria read to him, as Beatrice prayed over him, as Raquel watched, he opened his eyes. To them. Raquel could hardly breathe. He tracked them one at a time as they moved around the room. This was consciousness.

Beatrice said softly, "Angel sees us."

Maria said, "He's following you, Mother!"

The Mother Superior went to his side. She glanced at Raquel, the two women excited by the change. When Beatrice returned to his eyes once again, she had to take a breath. That was some light in those eyes! Fire! So intense was his hold on her.

"Can you talk to me, child?"

He was silent in his new wakefulness but he seemed to be asking something of her. She made a natural assumption, a likely one.

"You are in _Baracoa, Cuba._ You are being made well here. We are taking care of you. We are _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia._ Sisters of Mercy."

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, and clenched his fists. His entire body seized in a kind of… fury. His breathing changed, speeding up, until he simply held it.

Maria got frightened. "Angel! Don't do that!"

Raquel shook her head. Eyes on Beatrice who was questioning her.

" _He is alive and he knows it. He is angry. Not uncommon, very much him I think. The little I knew him, he always seemed to hate that he still breathed in the morning, that sleep did not take him."_

Beatrice took his hand in hers and worked to unclench his fist. She spoke to him, a prayer, and after some moments he took a breath and then kept breathing, but they were undeniably _angry_ breaths. Everything soon eased other than tight fists.

" _Does he speak Spanish, understand it?"_

" _Yes, fairly fluent like street children."_

Beatrice returned her focus to her patient, as she worked on his still tightened fist. " _You are safe here. You do not have to return to your old life. You have a new name, papers. You are free to travel, to leave, or stay. The world that has hurt you so very deeply, will never do so again."_

Maria fell onto the chair near the window. More prayers. " _Angel will be the death of me. How do mothers even live? I have never felt like this before!"_

Beatrice and Raquel laughed as they both worked to further unclench his fists. Which he soon did. He resumed his sleep and the women sighed at the miracle they were witnessing.

Raquel then said, _"What you just saw, my sister, is a taste of his upset. When he wakes fully, you will have a roaring lion on your hands. He will be the devil. Are you ready for that?"_

" _He will not be the first lion in our home."_

Beatrice had remained at his side, Raquel hovering and directing every ministering act, establishing new policies. " _Careful,"_ she said to the sisters who cared for him, " _with every physical contact. Avoid all potential pain."_

Night had since fallen. Two younger sisters had brought dinners to the room. Abram was lying on the bed, snoring lightly, tight up against Angel's side. Ana had placed his hand on the dog's warm body. They had fed Angel through the feeding tube that went directly into his stomach. Another scar that would remain once he woke.

Raquel had noticed a slight movement of his fingers on the dog's coat. She decided to test Angel. She dipped her finger into a bit of the sour yogurt they'd been eating. She stood. She squeezed his cheeks slightly to open his mouth. Then she delicately placed a pearl drop onto the tip of his tongue. She closed his mouth. Beatrice smiled when he pursed his lips and his features scrunched. He swallowed visibly.

 _Distaste._

" _I have been caring for rebellious men and women injured in battle my entire life in service to God,"_ Beatrice said. " _Not a one enjoyed Maria's yogurt."_

Raquel chuckled. " _It is so sour."_

The two quieted when he opened his eyes to Raquel. He held her gaze for long minutes, eyes full of familiar judgment. He searched the room and squeezed Abram, _feeling_ the dog. He licked his lips. He followed the trail of the tube that hydrated him. An intravenous line. Eyes up to the bottle hanging. He had to move his head slightly to see it.

The sisters were enthralled. They themselves hardly breathed in disbelief.

He landed on the canary. They saw that he was thinking about it, his eyes narrowing, eyes hard on the songbird. But then his expression changed and his eyes watered, and soon tears rolled down his cheeks. His face crinkled and he shook with _sorrow_. It was so clear. There was no sound, a voiceless agony tearing through him. Raquel leaned down and reached an arm across his chest. She pressed her forehead to the side of his head as he sobbed in his limited way and soon he stopped and seemed to relax once more.

Raquel couldn't possibly guess the source of his pain, there being too much to draw on. She glanced up at Beatrice who shook her head in sympathy, her eyes reddened.

They were in a new phase now. Beatrice and Raquel needed to be careful with what they said around him. They shared knowledge constantly, almost carelessly around Maria, because they knew who he was, knew his real name, and what major crime he might have committed that brought him to the Sisters of Mercy. Raquel especially. They had discussed how to approach him once he awakened. They decided they would offer no information other than what he wanted to know. They could not anticipate the level of amnesia he might have, or even delusion. He'd need gentle, slow introduction to his life… unless he demanded something else.

Beatrice was firm on that. Every day from now on was his to direct.

Angel watched the twittering songbird a long while. And then he sighed and slept again. Peaceful again. All the lines of life lifted from his features and so they knew he had ducked back into his preferred quiet. Raquel confirmed it when she tried the yogurt again. He didn't react to it. He did not like the knuckle test though. He wasn't completely under water. The waking was certain.

" _This will be a slow process and it will be rough seas,"_ Beatrice said.

" _Another week?"_

" _Impossible to say."_

" _I'll go and prepare for my absence. I'll stay with you through it."_

Beatrice smiled and held her sister's hand across Angel's chest. " _You don't have to, but he does appear to know you and his sadness, any upset, might need immediate answers. You're the best we have to do that."_

" _I'll be back then."_

The canary sang into the night when midnight hit…

...and he refused to watch, squeezing his eyes shut to assure it.

* * *

Pedro Moreno surrounded himself with the few older members of _Los Reyes del Mambo_ , the most loyal men he knew: Mario, David and Freddy. They sat at a table at the rear of a popular Llanview restaurant, _Hank's_ , and tonight enjoyed the delights of the newest chef at the invitation of Hank Gannon, the titular owner who'd given up his position as district attorney in favor of the restaurant. He'd joke that he wasn't sure which was more risky.

The place had an old school Atlantic City feel to it, dark decor, a sea of red leather. The only thing missing was the layer of cigarette smoke. Hank's was located at the very edge of the business district. The owner's brother, RJ Gannon, owned the club down the road. RJ ran with the Jamaican Posse, old allies of the Mambo Kings. Things weren't as rosy however since the _Serrano_ assault at the club, the same night Téa Delgado shot her husband and changed the trajectory of their lives.

Mario groaned happily at the taste of the shrimp dish. He was in charge of gambling, David managed the weapons, and Freddy worked the drug angle. Freddy's division had been seriously hit over the years thanks to _Blanco's_ efforts to reduce liabilities in service of Pedro's vision of legitimacy. Freddy had fought the idea, saying rightly that giving away power was its own liability.

 _You want to stay in drugs?_

 _Blanco-_

 _Buy stock in Glaxo, Novartis, Merck…_

 _What is he talking about, Pedro!_

 _Better yet, open your own pharma company. You'll make a bigger killing than in street drugs._

It was a ridiculous plan, telling a long-time MK soldier who'd spent ten years in Statesville to go buy stocks… but Freddy stopped laughing, stopped threatening, and did just that, became a major stockholder in a company that developed an HIV drug. He made a lot of money, hundreds of thousands dollars, a million maybe, when the company went public. Freddy wasn't alone in that success. He was able to put a lot of young MK soldiers on the path to _healthfulness_. Pedro resisted an open hysterical laugh at the absurdity, at the pun.

A pretty waitress winked at Pedro as she brought him a fresh glass of scotch. He drank it for _Blanco._ He lost track of the conversation, an old man's tears stinging his eyes.

He was a crippled king. He had returned from Havana forever changed, weakened. He lost territories, lost soldiers, fell to competitors in every arena. He literally lost seven loyal men in his son's private war. He laughed to himself. Bitterly. _Blanco_ denied it, passionately, with Pedro's gun at his chest on the patio of the beach house, his own son Jedediah at his side.

 _I have spilled blood for MK to proclaim my devotion, my commitment, my HONOR. How can you even question me? I would never harm an MK brother. I would never harm you._

 _Blanco! I trusted you!_

 _You are KING, the only KING. I give my life to you to prove my loyalty. I give my beating heart to you._

He lifted the glass and twirled it in the light. He held no ill will against anyone. He was a neutered dog and the criminal underworld knew it. Profits were low, reputation too. _Blanco_ was the real king. The men were demoralized, disappointed. A drug overdose?! They didn't believe it. They were certain _Blanco_ was murdered, ready to fly down to Havana themselves to blow up many more houses. Pedro tried to follow the thread of the men's discussion. It was pointless. He missed Manuel. Oh he did not resent the presumed killing of him, logically, morally. His death was the only end possible, but… he missed his brother, their partnership. The two men talked every week, met often, worked out tangles together. He missed _Blanco_ , too. Things would never be the same again.

Manuel Caro had been declared missing and not a person lifted a finger to find him. The American government didn't break backs to do it because… well… the sheer number of children that got saved, the massive trafficking bust, took precedence. Cuba didn't search for him because he was a stain that needed to be erased.

 _Rico Macias_ gave a statement that Téa had been found in Manuel's apartment and that Manuel disappeared into the city but Pedro knew that was a lie. The evidence didn't hold up- nothing of Téa's was found in that apartment. He considered tracking that _maricon_ down and forcing the issue but _Blanco_ loved him and gossip traveled and it was a strange culture change among younger MK men where Macias held their respect almost as if he'd been a spouse, another adopted MK brother, almost the same respect as they reserved for Téa Delgado. Young people did not seem to care that _Blanco_ loved who he loved and if he did, whoever he chose, however many, man or woman or something else altogether… there was good reason for it.

 _Blanco's_ uniqueness reflected who these young people were today. MK was changing. Pedro knew of three soldiers who _came out_ since the bombing. They remained in MK, they were safe, _thriving_. Five years ago they would have been ejected; if they'd been in Statesville, they would have been killed. Even three years ago, Pedro was able to control _Blanco_ by holding his nocturnal fucks of his chosen prison lovers over his head. Today, if Pedro tried such a thing, _Blanco_ would have laughed at him.

 _Welcome to the 21st century, bitch._

Pedro would never be out of danger on the Manuel Caro point. _Blanco_ made sure of that. He held transaction statements that proved the connection between Manuel's companies and Pedro's; that was a way into the entire scheme that any D.A. or attorney general would give his mother up to have. Lazy accounting that _Blanco_ stumbled upon on his many trips up here during his stay in Havana. He had a real way of getting information. Pedro had no idea where those transaction statements had gone. They were out there, lining the blade of a guillotine.

 _Neutered_.

David turned to Pedro, "What is the matter, Padre? You are very quiet."

"Nothing… my 68th birthday is around the corner. Perhaps I feel the cold of the morgue already."

Freddy tilted his head, eyeing a space beyond Pedro. "Is that _Blanco's_ wife?"

Pedro turned and his heart strangely jumped. "Yes," he murmured. He hadn't seen her in months, not since the memorial service. Téa Delgado held court at a table with people he didn't know. Two other women and a man. Moneyed people. She shined, drew his gaze, like a porcelain doll in a museum. Grief looked good on her. Her hair was put up and it showed her newly-delicate features. Her black cashmere suit and the way she spoke gave her a hardness that clashed with her pretty face. Her expression was fierce and he turned back to his dinner.

He lost his appetite. He waved away his friends. "Leave me… leave me, please. I will get the bill."

The men objected but one flash of upset chased them off. Pedro Moreno was still a king, weakness no matter. He moved to the other side of the booth. From here, he could watch her.

An hour later, two more drinks in, and Téa was saying goodbye to the company. She was headed his way, had to pass him in order to leave. She caught sight of Pedro and stopped hard in her tracks, blanching.

"Please sit with me," he said.

She looked around, unable to cover the hatred.

"Please," he repeated.

She slid into the booth. They were quiet some moments.

Pedro said softly, "I am sorry for your loss. I think of him everyday, _todo el tiempo_."

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Then she looked up and said, "Don't offer condolences when you were responsible for his death. No. I don't accept them."

"I did-"

"NO. Don't even start. His death is on you. Don't ever forget that. Don't deny it. Don't pretend that this was Caro or the FBI or even heroin. No. This is on you. _Para siempre_. Always."

Pedro nodded and kept his eyes on his drink. Rightly slapped. He studied her hand, ivory against the red tablecloth. Red nails. Short. She cleared her throat.

"I represent a soldier of yours," she said.

"You represent ten soldiers. They all flock to you."

She did not tell him that she represented fifteen soldiers, three higher-ups including Mario-in-charge-of-gambling, and several ex-Serrano soldiers who wanted to repair their relationship with their Cuban cousins. She had several pleas waiting for her on her desk and multiple negotiations on the books. She did not share that she was helping the lead Statesville MK man work his appeal to get out. Téa did not share just how broadly she'd made inroads with MK members over the past two months, including the prostitutes and several girlfriends and wives, since Rolon told her the way to gut Pedro was by attacking MK from the inside.

"They do flock," she said, her voice cool and sharp. "Because I save them from Statesville and your bullshit prison gang there. You realize heroin is making a comeback… right under your nose. Along with meth and all the pharmaceuticals with street value. Drugs are back in MK territory, controlled by MK. Drugs have been reclaimed."

He wiped his face, smoothed his mustache. "I heard."

"Well shut it the hell down, Moreno. You should look at Freddy… wasn't that his responsibility?"

He picked up his drink and sipped it. How did she know about Freddy? _Blanco_ must have shared… a lot.

 _Neutered_.

"I have lost the ability to control my men."

Téa sat back in her seat. Eyed him. He was thinner these days, older looking. His grey suit was wrinkled at the chest as if he slept on it. "What's wrong with you? Are you sick?"

He laughed softly, "No, _mamita_. Sick at heart maybe."

"Don't tell me Todd's death has affected you."

Pedro leaned forward on his elbows. He looked at her, sincerity dripping, thick as mud. "It has. I am still under the weight of losing _Blanco_. I… he… left me here, handing my crown back to me and I find it heavier than before. It is a crown of thorns longer, sharper, more poisonous than before. I never knew it to be this way."

"Are you bleeding from the cuts, are you sick from the poison in your blood?" She snorted with a choked laugh. " _Que cojones tienes._ You have a lot of nerve blaming _grief_ … for you turning a blind eye to drug trafficking. _"_

He nodded, not arguing, how could he? She was right.

 _So very neutered._

Disgusted, she pulled Freddy's glass towards her, picked it up and sniffed at it. She dragged David's glass over and sniffed at it too. Then she dumped the rest of David's rum into Freddy's and drunk the whole thing down at once like it was water.

He so wanted to talk to her, to really talk. He knew he was being intrusive with how he stared at her. Knew his thoughts were improper. He wanted to hold her to him, to comfort her. He hated that he could not stop the wrong thoughts. He was a father-in-law to her. He looked away, ashamed of himself, an erection actually forming. Her red silk blouse had opened far too much, her red lacy bra low, the fullness of her breast flashing openly. She did not correct the situation, allowing her suit jacket to stay loose.

She then glanced around for listeners. She dug into her purse and dug out a card. She slid it across the table to him. He glanced down at it.

 _Method Makers, Inc._

 _Dover, Delaware_

" _The New World Has Arrived"_

Delaware. That allowed her to hide investors.

"My company," she said. "Your _ten_ soldiers hold stock in it. They are getting out of illegal drugs and are now assisting in the growth and development of nutritional supplements based on marijuana research advancements. The company is sponsoring their attendance at Llanview University. Business degrees, of course. We have a subsidiary that will be growing marijuana and another subsidiary that is pursuing dispensaries across the country. We are national. We're changemakers in the industry. It is… a _growth_ industry."

Pedro looked at her, stunned. "Téa…"

"Don't call me that," she spat, her full lips tight, her voice full of venom that reminded him of _Blanco_. "You have not earned that intimacy."

She stood up and stared down at Pedro. The diamonds in her ears glittered. "My company operates a loan business for marijuana startups. Your men… are very good, especially at collection. Real goddamn bulldogs."

She turned on her heels and began walking away, her hips swishing, the heat coming off her in waves. She stopped and returned to the table where she slammed her hands down, clutch bag swinging at her side, breasts pressed together and screaming at him.

"You do know that MK has women, yes? They are not official… but they have been the only reason MK has survived. You should acknowledge them. Maybe have a dinner or something. Maybe get them passes to Disney World."

She stood and turned again, continuing her catlike walk and exited the room and Pedro realized his palms were sweating. He did not know or understand what just happened. Ten soldiers working for her? Marijuana industry? Téa Delgado? What dinner? Women? The wives, the girlfriends, the whores?

 _She's the Puertorriquena queen to Blanco - watch her, brother._

Ages ago, David warned Pedro about her. He didn't trust her, didn't trust anyone from New York, much less anyone not Cuban. She proved to be harmless. She was quiet and never interfered, not until the end and even then. He looked at his email. A note from the Chief of Police in Havana. One word.

 _Awake._

If only he could have saved his son thirty years before, saved him from that evil father he had, saved him from Manuel. He would have. _Blanco_ would have learned discipline, strength, would have-

 _Awake._

He was dreaming. He was delusional. Only twelve years ago he picked up fourteen-year old Gloria from the streets and raped her in his limousine. Nearly four years ago he forced her to have sex with _Blanco_ , to tame him, despite the man not wanting to… she _tamed_ more men than he could count. He forced _Blanco_ to do it just the same in order to prove himself a man that indeed fucked women, that he was not a total homosexual because MK was so intolerant. And only last year, he sat downstairs and listened to the noise upstairs at the Havana beach house as his son violently raped Gloria to the great pride and joy of Pedro.

He had done nothing.

 _Pedro help me! Blanco, stop, oh my god stop! Pedro! PEDRO!_

He was not the enlightened neutered man he was today. Had he adopted _Blanco,_ he would have saved him from his father and Manuel, true, he would have raised him to be King, still, but his son most likely would have committed the same crimes he did before because one did not learn to respect women in MK, one learned to use them. One did not learn to avoid violence in MK, one learned to use it. In MK, one did not learn to stay out of prison but how to survive it, how to thrive in it.

Had he adopted _Blanco,_ Pedro might still be mourning a dead son hidden away in a Cuban restored convent.

He opened a new email page and dropped a few lines. He needed to pack. His son would have questions… and a decision to make.

If he was still himself.

 _We leave to Havana on Saturday. Prepare the plane._

* * *

From outside Hank's, Rolon eased up on the pistol in his hand. A bodyguard had been inside the restaurant, instructed to be invisible to Pedro. There was a time when she angrily rejected security detail. No longer. He put the piece away when Téa emerged from the restaurant, followed by Orlando in his black suit, a former marine who spent time in MK but had been _separated_ from MK due to his sexual orientation. No love lost for Pedro Moreno. She was sashaying towards Rolon as she pulled a pin from her hair and shook it out, shook the silky brown locks loose. She smiled.

"You saw him?"

"I talked to him. He waited for me. He knows now about the company. He was a bit nervous."

"Are you sure of this?"

"Am I sure I want to continue the downward dive? Yes, Rolon, yes."

She sniffed and walked to the car, to the back door. Rolon plopped the driver's cap on and opened the door for her, " _La_ _Reina_?"

When she got inside, he closed the door and looked around, seeing Pedro at the front of Hank's. He nodded to Rolon, his rugged face a mask of curiosity. Rolon nodded back, respectfully, then got in the car and drove off, Orlando in a car behind them. In the rear view mirror, he saw Téa wipe her red lipstick off. She reached down and slipped off her stiletto heels. She closed her eyes and caressed the ring she wore on her necklace… and he heard her whisper her usual mantra…

"Fuck you, you fucking bastard. You did this, you did. I hope you're burning in hell on your fucking throne. Fuck you, you fucking bastard..."

He knew she spoke to Todd Manning, knew she'd say those words like a prayer all the way home, all the way nearly everywhere. Every day. Never tears, not once. Her rage took up every bit of her emotional energy. The only time he saw her let down was the every-so-often hug she needed, the climb onto his lap, _tighter, tighter._ He squeezed the steering wheel and drove her home to her wrap-around porch lit up, windows lit up, the forest behind black and endless. Jedediah Chant came to the car and opened Téa's door, eyes hard on Rolon's.

"How'd it go?" His light tone did not match the gaze he reserved for Rolon.

"As expected," she said, getting out of the Mercedes sedan. She waved to Orlando who took off. Another guard, another ex-MK member, stood watch at the front gates. Two more guards were installed in the rear of the house. The whole crew got replaced by another for the daytime hours.

Life had changed.

Rolon pointed at Jedediah, "See you tomorrow, kid."

"Tomorrow."

The queen had come home and MK proper did not know what was about to hit them. They could not see the fiery meteor heading their way.

 **To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 5**

Mother Superior Beatrice checked the time on the silver pocket watch that hung around her neck. 6:30 in the morning. She hurried up the stone stairs of the tower, a treacherous endeavor if one didn't watch, wasn't familiar. She was thankful for her sturdy boots. She held the smooth iron railing as she rose, smoothed with time and use. Not far behind her was young Teresa, newly inducted.

The entire sisterhood had been on edge all week as they awaited Angel's complete awakening. They were beyond curious to meet him, a real-world mystery hovering between Beatrice's assurance that God had brought him and Raquel's belief that a devil slept in that tower bed.

They all knew he belonged to _Los Reyes del Mambo_. That was only a small part of a whole. _Jesucristo_ himself was a rebel. Convicted even. Executed.

" _Do you think this is it, Mother?_ " Teresa called up as they climbed.

" _Perhaps_ ," Beatrice huffed, " _Now quiet, say nothing_. _We do not want to frighten him."_

Beatrice hit the final landing, panting a little. Teresa had been here earlier to feed the songbird and arrange the necessities for the day on the various tables in the room. When she approached the bed to check that everything was as it should be, he had suddenly reached out and grabbed the steel railing attached to the bed, a noisy violent grip. First one hand, then the other, all in effort to pull himself up. He was breathing roughly, coughing a little, eyes open and fiery. She had yelped in surprise and a little bit of fear and ran to get the Mother Superior.

Holding her breath a moment, Beatrice saw him. Even though she'd been expecting this for some time, the reality was… stunning. She touched Teresa behind her, slowing her forward momentum. She put a finger to her lips, commanding once more that the girl stay quiet.

Angel was sitting upright on the bed, carefully exploring the feeding tube attached to his stomach. He was thin, slight grooves visible from the back that might have been his ribs, shoulders broad, angular. She saw the terrifying tattoos on his back, the Grim Reaper and black angel they had all come to know and the printed announcement of his loyalty to _La Habana, Cuba_. She recognized the range of scars and echoes of a formerly strong, muscled body. The knowledge of his body was an odd one-direction intimacy with him. He did not know how well the sisterhood knew his physical self.

Beatrice approached him slowly, one careful step at a time. He heard her, turning his head just an inch in her direction. She could not shift away from the ink, the scars, the ones they cared for all these months through their hands with cloths, oils, lotion, water and soap… those marks no longer passive. The color and cuts seemed to have new life, new energy, and it seemed a devil was awake, a Grim Reaper's grin and black eyes aimed right at her.

It wasn't that she disagreed with Raquel's warnings of _Blanco's_ reality, that he was not _un ángel,_ so often Raquel derided their choice of name for him… no, it was that it didn't matter.

God had sent him here, regardless of his misdeeds. Satan was a fallen angel in truth.

She cleared her throat to warn him, to let him know he wasn't alone. She moved closer still to him.

He turned slowly, piercing hazel eyes on hers. The usual three-day growth on his sharp-featured face did not hide the deep scar that marred his cheek. She could see he was trembling. The room was cold, one of the windows open. The sun hadn't had a chance to warm the convent. He said nothing as she took a few more steps. His once-long hair had been cut short, almost to his scalp, and she could see the scar he now sported from the surgery to relieve the swelling of his brain when he had first arrived at hospital.

"Hello," she said, "I am Beatrice."

He visibly swallowed, never releasing her from his steady gaze. His expression was plain and hard to read. She could not tell if he was afraid, or angry, or even curious. There was a hardness there, however, in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. She was deeply reminded of the rebel soldiers she had known as a child during the Cuban uprising against President Batista in the late 1950s. The events of the Cuban revolution are what propelled her to _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia._ Had she met him as a child, he would have inspired her just as the other men and women had. How ironic that since then, the revolutionaries she treated worked against the Castro regime.

"Do you need something?"

He stayed quiet, still staring at her. When she came right up on him, next to the bed, he licked his lips and narrowed his eyes and said in a rough voice, "Where… are my...?"

English.

His words were deliberate, overly enunciated, slowly spoken. He shook his head, blinked, eyebrows knitted, and Beatrice knew he was probably experiencing aphasia, the loss of words common with head injuries. He ran his fingers down his chest.

" _Clothes_ ," he finally said. "Where… are… my _clothes_?"

Beatrice smiled and emitted the quietest laugh, not expecting that question, not realizing how shocked she was that he was most definitely awake. It was truly a miracle he was talking to her, alive. She nearly said, how nice to meet you. She had never heard his voice before. It wasn't particularly bass-deep nor tenor-high… a baritone if he were a singer, if he overcame the rasp from disuse.

"In that chest over there," she said, pointing to the left of him. "Pants, shirts, underthings, socks and shoes. I can get you a jacket, a coat. Do you want to dress?"

He studied the old wooden chest, painted a rich brown, and returned his gaze to Beatrice. She moved closer to him and reached out to touch his shoulder, to assure him, to connect, and he put his hand up to stop her.

"No…touching."

Here, at the end of aimless river, through the long cave with the constant movies of his life above, he couldn't bear the thought of hands on him, the sensation making him want to jump out of his skin. The idea of it. _Touching_ had nearly killed him over and over throughout his history. Touching is what brought him… _here_.

Thankfully, the nun retreated. He pulled the linens up to cover himself more. He slipped a hand beneath and felt the cloth wrap around his hips, placed a hand on his crotch, finding more of the same and somehow recognized that it was probably for bathroom purposes. Low-level humiliation made him wince and grunt softly. He searched the room for a bathroom, praying there was one. He saw a small closed door, hoping that was it. He could use a shower, he decided. He eyed the saline intravenous tube, the entrance point on his chest. He delicately touched the patch that held the line.

A single string of words bounced in his head, a phrase that kept coming back ever since he'd woken up to the birds beyond the window…

 _What the FUCK?_

His morning had been so strange and dreamy, floating out of one fog into another. He had a distant sense of who he was, a man birthed by violence, violation, living a kind of perpetual war. He knew the sequential occurrences that had brought him here, each horror leading to the next, and knew the people beneath everything, alongside it all, the boundless love that percolated there… but… but...

… _names_ had dropped off, certain specifics scratched away like scratched serial numbers off the barrel of a gun. The sounds of them had disappeared, the stories they might have told, gone. Places however, locations of acts against him and his acts against others, milestones in his life, his _history,_ all blended into a series of confusing and noisy circus rings. It was as if his whole life was under the tall tents of Barnum & Bailey and he was just one in an audience of hundreds, ticket tight in one hand, salted peanuts in the other, mouth open, eyes wide...

 _What a fucking shit show._ _What the FUCK?_

He could not recall his own name, or those of any of the faces that drifted in and out of his mind. He could see them, practically touch them, knew their hurts and joys… and yet… they were part of the show that he watched.

He swallowed hard. Understood that he had spent a long time in this room. He knew the cracks and furnishings and the sounds of a larger space beyond the walls...knew this room as well as he knew the tent's red and white stripes that held the circus playing in his head.

"How long… have I…," he asked, the rest of the sentence vanishing. He glanced at the woman and rubbed his head, feeling the buzzed hair. A disorienting sensation. He remembered long hair, knew he insisted on it, that it meant something to him but he wasn't sure what. He glanced around the bed and leaned over slightly, over the railing, as if gauging how long a drop it was to the floor.

"Over four months," she said, "nearly five actually."

Beatrice could see her answer affected him. He dragged eyes to hers, holding her there, a tide of fear, worry, and disbelief sweeping across his features. Then that same grief she had seen in his brief times of awareness previous to now burst forth and his eyes watered and he touched his lips and dropped his head downwards. He made a muffled gasping noise and his shoulders shook at the wave that had quickly overcome him. She let him mourn whatever he was mourning. She did not want to push anything.

He needed to ask the questions before she could answer.

After some time hidden in the private darkness his hands to his face afforded him, he breathed noisily and wiped messy tears away, used the sheet to scrape at his nose. He sniffed hard. Almost angrily. He seemed to ease into a less sorrowful pace. The tide of pain on his face rolled back out to sea, leaving plainness, indecipherable emotion. He studied the views outside the tower windows, the green tops of palm trees, coconut and banana trees, the tropical forest, the ocean beyond.

He looked at her once more and said with a Cuban pronunciation, " _Baracoa_?"

"Yes," she said, happy that he seemed to have remembered the several times she told him that much in his brief instances of awareness.

"Why?"

Oh this was a harder question to answer. She had to tread carefully. "You were injured. You have been recovering here, with us, the Sisters of Mercy."

He considered her words. Then, with a look of confusion on his face he motioned down the side of his head, referring to her habit. He chewed his lip, searching for the word, settling on, "Nuns?"

Beatrice smiled and nodded. "We live in the oldest convent on the island of Cuba. We are only recently _allowed_ to be public. Previous to last year, we operated in secret, pretending to just be the caretakers of an archeological treasure."

He rolled his eyes and tilted his head at her, and after some moments, said, "That's… a lot… of words."

Beatrice gasped a little and then smiled. He was being funny, mocking his own mental fog, a further effect of his condition. The injuries. The coma or catatonic state. They'd never know the true cause of his perpetual sleep. The devil had a sense of humor.

Without turning further, he could not see the doorway from his bed that occupied the center of the room. If he had done so, he would have noticed several more nuns there, entranced that their guest was awake. Maria was at the front of the gathering. Raquel was making her way through. They were all deadly quiet.

Once again, he pulled up the linens, but then reversed course, pushing them down. He wanted to get up and Beatrice panicked except he realized the railings prevented him from getting out of bed, so he backed off. He glanced at her, questioning. He shook the railing and rumbled, "Help?"

"Yes, shortly. You have been in bed for months and your body is not used to holding your weight so you have to work up to it. You are sitting which is a very good start."

He calmed again, seeming to understand his predicament and held the rail. In his fairly good Spanish, he then said, " _You speak English. Why? You are… Cuban."_

The women in the door couldn't keep their joy down at hearing him speak in their language.

" _He can talk to us!"_

He turned at the sound and eyed the few women, his gaze catching on Raquel, long intense moments before he returned to Beatrice. The sisters grew shy and stepped back. Raquel stood in front of Maria, all eyes on Beatrice.

Beatrice decided to lie somewhat. "Your tattoos are in English… a saying. I guessed correctly you are English-speaking. I did not know the extent of your Spanish fluency."

" _I do not speak…. perfect. I speak... enough."_

The sisters twittered, an excited tone to it, whispers following. Beatrice flashed them a look of consternation and they settled back into their dead quiet. Angel was looking at them again, but once more, focused on Raquel. Since he had spotted her, she entered the room. She was sorry she did not have Abram with her. The dog was with Anna, out in the forested grounds, picking the medicinal herbs that grew there, some naturally, some planted.

He did not stop looking at her as she approached.

It was like watching a movie. He saw himself on a bed in a cluttered room teeming of medical supplies and she was melting something… a liquid… and injecting him and he gasped suddenly in complete recollection of the high that followed, the relief of craziness, madness put away like another medical supply on a shelf… seen but not felt.

 _Saved by heroin._

He kept his eyes on her because there was so much more that happened with her, so much that she knew of him, so much love and so much hate…

 _Fucking is better than dying, yes, yes, except he has not been tended to the way you are tending to him, he has never had what you are bringing him, you will hurt him, he is unprepared for the end that is guaranteed to come, be careful with him._

He did not give an internal voice to what lay beside the vaguely remembered conversations, to what else happened in that room with the medical supplies, on that tiny bed.

 _Him._

When he landed on Raquel, her name also unattainable, he couldn't hide the recognition, the sorrow, the regret, but mostly, unfortunately, he could not hide his slightly-ecstatic recall of _heroin_. He couldn't have told her the name of his drug aloud but it floated all through his head. He grunted softly, an almost sensual noise, licked his lips and touched his arm, caressing the track marks marked by tattooed tadpoles. He felt a distinct stirring in his loins and some sense of decorum, modesty, or whatever, stopped him from grabbing his dick though he wanted to. Heroin and _that_ seemed connected.

He wondered where the dog was, wondered where _he_ was and _she_. No, no, he knew where _she_ was. _She_ was dead and _he_ had been left behind in a hospital hallway, people long-disappeared who had dug into his heart with icepicks of love, leading to a brokenness inside of him that wasn't specifically, intentionally, their doing. A child lurked in the memories, two children. More at home. Another dead _she._

No, no, the blame on _him_ was wrong. All the shit he woke up to had been entirely his own doing.

Raquel crossed her arms, judgment on her face that was strangely heartwarming, familiar, and he had to ask.

"What... are you... calling me? _Mí nombre…_ I keep hearing it."

" _Angel Victor."_

He glanced down and shook his head. " _Irónico_."

Raquel chuckled quietly, sadly, " _Sí_."

" _Can you tell me your name, your real name?"_ Beatrice asked.

He was quiet for a long time, eyes on the songbird. " _I do not know. It… flies…too far to see."_

A _victor_ said he had won a war but he didn't. He had lost everything. This convent was a mistake, the songbird in the corner singing of love lost but still hopeful was wrong. He was most definitely not supposed to be alive. He fought a tidal wave of grief for the _her_ that was gone. He could not hide it, he could not fight it. He fell back on the pillows behind him and covered his face and silently cried into the darkness. He couldn't remember her name, or rather, her name evaded him like a squirrel in a forest, scampering up an impossibly high tree. So many names disappeared into the branches.

And he was grateful for it.

The woman in the cacky pants and men's button-up shirt that was missing the blade at her side, silver braids piled on her head, caressed his shoulder and while he wanted to rage wildly at the touch, there was something relieving in it. He wasn't sure what. He just needed her to do that. To touch him.

 _T_ ó _came._

Touch me.

 _The other._

 _He._

He breathed and slowed the pain, fought a powerful desire to sleep that was calling to him greater than any want for heroin, more intense than the remembered cravings lurking at the very edge of his current mental reach. The Havana hospital bloomed to life around him, _blame_ blooming. He could see _him_ sitting next to him, dark hair, dark eyes. _He_ was trying to help but it was not possible, was it?

 _Are you healed? Are you better? Are you sated? You took him out, you saved the fuckin' world, but she fuckin' paid for that didn't she, for you to have his heart in your mouth, for you to suck him dry one… last… time._

Perfect blame, scapegoating, something he was good at. He never was one to accept blame, not for many years. If the _other_ had not been so engaged in his own war, he had reasoned, _he_ would have noticed, _they_ would have noticed, that _she_ was bleeding out. That _she_ was dying.

But...but… that was a lie. An easy out in a desperate moment. He had not really hated _the other_ when he chased him away. There simply was no alternative place for his hate to go at that time, in that space, in that very instant. That face, those dark haunted eyes, gave permission to be sucker-punched.

 _Gutted_.

All he needed was a few words to pull _his_ name from the woman's lips who stood at his side, _her_ name. She knew a lot of scampering names. He refused to do it. He did not even try because he wasn't ready to see his truths laid out so plainly, a disemboweled body at his feet. He restrained himself. He tied his tongue, pursed his lips, and fisted his hands.

"Angel, look at me," Beatrice asked.

He didn't want to. He didn't want to be here. He was not supposed to be here. He'd fucked things up. He was supposed to be DEAD.

Raquel had to turn away because she found herself angry at Beatrice again. He should be home with his family. She wondered what he knew of them. He had been in the hospital the last time she saw him. He had been beyond consolable because the doctor…

She suddenly wondered if he believed his wife was dead? She wasn't though. Téa was alive and well with their daughter back in the United States. Her eyes widened and her breath sped up. He could not be left with such a horror in his mind-it was probably what he was grieving.

" _Hermana…_ "

Beatrice always had a sixth sense about her sister. Some idea had popped into Raquel's mind and she was about to share, but now was not the time. Beatrice grabbed Raquel's hand and smiled tightly. In Spanish because Raquel refused to speak English ( _the language of colonists_ ) though she understood it mostly, Beatrice snapped, " _Not to worry, we will give him breakfast soon. We must move slowly._ "

Raquel shut her mouth. She had almost forgotten herself. Even though _Blanco_ was awake, he was terribly fragile and she strongly thought Beatrice was correct… his persistent sleep might have been catatonia, a mental disorder, meaning one wrong step and he might slip back into his frozen state. He had to be gently led into the details of his life…

She almost laughed. Caught those flinty hazel eyes. His expression was…

… _defiant._

Todd Manning, aka _Blanco Moreno,_ was not _fragile_. He was a stubborn bullish bastard who had shut himself down, taking advantage of a very real head injury, for nearly five months because he did not want to face his major crime of…

… _surviving_.

She might have called him a coward for not wanting to face reality but that wasn't it. He had simply insisted on being dead since clearly the bombing hadn't done it. The _sleep_ was as close to dying as he could come.

The tears had stopped. He ran fingertips over the words on his belly. _Los Reyes Del Mambo._ It took time to put the phrase together, to read the upside down letters. They were not meant for him to read, but were a pronouncement, a declaration to others. A warning. Another _him_ drifted at that. He focused on his hand.

 _I am sorry, my son. I am sorry for everything. You deserved so much better._

Someone had been holding it, talking to him. Someone… that infuriated him. A man. He roved the room and saw only the women. He shook his head. Maybe just more of the fog. The two women at his side were talking to him but they were using a lot of words that he just couldn't fully process though he did guess they were telling him what had been broken, damaged, the surgeries he'd undergone. Nothing mattered. He didn't care. What they did not tell him was _how_ he got injured. They didn't have to. He already knew.

 _I am sorry, my son._

He reached out and grabbed Raquel's wrist, rasping, " _Did innocents die? Are you here to kill me?_ "

Beatrice stopped cold her listing of injuries, eyed Raquel, sensing the question was part of a previous conversation, previous to his injuries. Interesting. She crossed her arms, suspicious that Raquel knew much more than she had shared previously.

Raquel answered, eyes on his, " _Innocents did not die. I am not here to kill you. It would be a waste of energy since you have been dead for months."_

He let her go.

"Help me," he then said quietly, pointing to the bathroom. "I am not doing anything in…," he paused, hitting a blank spot. He patted the sheets and then added, "bed." He scanned the women at the door and sighed. " _Por favor?"_

Beatrice understood his self-consciousness, his urgency to get up, and chased the sisters away, down the stairwell, leaving only herself and Raquel. She returned to the bed and said, "Okay, Angel," as she lowered the railing, allowing him access now. she disconnected the saline drip.

He looked somewhat intimidated, biting his lip, eying the drop to the floor again.

"Hold our shoulders. We will help you walk," Beatrice offered.

He moved his legs to the side and they hung down. He glanced at the floor some moments, and then nodded, the two women on both sides of him. With his arms on their shoulders, touching he cringed at, touching that made him grind his teeth, they lifted and placed him on the floor.

He felt the cold of the tiled floor and he grunted, hunching, having to resist jerking up his legs like a baby might, the sensation of the floor unpleasant, sharp, almost painful. The odd thought brought images forth, his own children, the little boy doing just that, making him… _the father_ … making him laugh and pick him up, holding him tight in his arms. Right next to him, in that memory was… _she._ Her laughter rang out and he didn't want to look at her because she was gone and he'd never see that beautiful face again, would never hear her again.

The memory froze him and the women had to stop. He closed his eyes and huffed and he ached to hold that boy once more, that child he loved so much, ached to place the boy in _her_ arms. His head hung down and he couldn't move for the wave of grief tearing through him.

After some moments, minutes even, the pictures finally released him and he whispered, "Okay... okay…"

They took steps, carrying him, but then loosened their hold, allowing him to carry his own weight and he immediately understood why the sisters were at his side. Muscles were like jelly and he cursed, grabbing the sisters to stop him from falling.

They helped him walk the rest of the way to the bathroom and with each step he gained some confidence, some strength. This would take a lot of time and he grunted angrily at the idea of it.

Raquel stayed with him, eyes averted, as Beatrice ran to get clothes.

Todd was thoroughly, unstoppably, awake and a new day awaited him, a new world. He wasn't sure what the fuck he was going to find. It was bad enough that he had found himself … _alive_.

This was never supposed to have happened.

* * *

Pedro Moreno had arrived during the week previous.

He had come to the lush property of the newly-approved convent of _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia_ after the update of a single word from the police chief that pronounced _Blanco_ as " _Awake."_ But there was more to his trip. He also learned that an underground journalist had been poking his nose in places it didn't belong. He needed to be sure of _Blanco's_ safety. He was worried, yet another weight on his shoulders.

Much to Pedro's surprise, in addition to housing a small medical clinic, the convent was an operating winery, a very small one, with the full backing of the Cuban government. The winery was the brainchild of Sister Anna, a former vintner, who swore the wines would be delicious and capture the imagination of youthful wine lovers coming from Europe in search of something different. Caribbean wines were all the rage these days, were rare, and brought in a lot of money. The sisterhood, especially Beatrice, was shocked when the grapes actually grew, when the wines began to age, and were delicious. Pedro had to admit, the wine was good.

It was a rainy day, the day he arrived. The first place he went was the sanctuary. He knelt at the feet of Jesucristo on the cross, lit candles, rested in the wooden pews to admire the light, the quiet. It wasn't long before Mother Superior Beatrice sat next to him.

 _You have come to see Angel?_

 _Yes, how do you know?_

 _I know many things._

Beatrice hadn't been so eager to allow him access to Angel.

 _He has been through much, he is just coming out of his sleep._

 _You mean, he is not fully awake?_

 _No, he tracks our movement in the room sometimes, he will eat soft food, swallow it. Sometimes he refuses food. There is consciousness in those moments._

Pedro had been disappointed and yet relieved. He did not think he was ready to share the whole story of how _Blanco_ got here. He was not sure _Blanco_ would... appreciate...being rescued, being hidden away from his wife, Téa. He would not appreciate what Téa… had become.

 _I am unsure of the wisdom of you seeing him._

 _I have my own reservations. Why you?_

 _He is highly aware even when he is sleeping. I do not want you to speak too much to his circumstances. Amnesia is very common for person in his condition. I want him to slowly come to his own reality. Do you understand?_

 _You want me to not share, to not offer information._

 _Exactly._

 _I promise to not speak openly of… things._

He had been escorted to the tower room, through the hidden doorway next to the hanging Jesus Christ, escorted up the stone stairs to the bedside of his putative son, _su hijo bastardo._ The sight of him lying in a deathly state, still and non-responsive, eyes closed, with a sister massaging his hand… well, it turned him upside down. His condition seemed permanent.

Pedro was uncharacteristically affected, but then everything to do with _Blanco_ was uncharacteristic. He sat on a chair by the window. Fell onto it, moreso. He had been a terrible father his whole adult life, distant, overly strict. His children… two young men now and ever-challenging Leya... had little to no relationship with him. Leya was near actively hateful. His wife had raised them virtually on her own. To see _Blanco_ now and feel pain at seeing him this way was something new to him, the echoes of which he had been experiencing for some time, even since before learning of the abuses of Manuel Caro. Protective, concerned, love, wishes for his well-being. He loved _Blanco_ like one should love a blood son.

Beatrice rested a hand on the shoulder of the clearly upset older man. " _Remember, sir, he is aware even though not fully awake. You need to know this, you need to behave as if he fully hears you. Call him Angel._ " She urged him to go to his bedside.

It had been so long since he had seen him, since he pushed aside the tarp and saw his face blackened by fire and blood. Since he believed him dead.

" _Bla- Angel…_ I am here."

His son breathed evenly, peacefully. Lying on his back, his eyes were closed, his body resting without a flinch or jerk. Pedro wondered if he had ever seen him like this. He did not think so, never having him sleep in his home back in Llanview, never visiting him in hospital following the great beating he had given him when he showed up at the restaurant high on heroin. He reached out and caressed his head, the short hair. It was strange to touch him, another parental right he never exercised, not really. Not in an openly loving way. He carefully ran fingertips down the tattoos of his arm, studying the spider web on his shoulder and upper chest. The **MK** buried there. He saw the medal he wore on a chain, a saint. It saved his life. The Mother Superior might have rejected the protection if it wasn't for that.

Beatrice came up and handed him a sponge, saying to wash him.

" _He must be stimulated to awaken. He has been trying to wake more fully all week."_

Pedro took the sponge and contemplated such an intimate act on his son's body. He realized certain practical realities. He turned, hustled away from Angel, to the doorway. He whispered harshly, his hand on the arm Beatrice, " _You respect him, yes? He is not abused… he is treated well, yes?"_

Beatrice did not understand, was even offended, " _Of course, the dignity of our patients is everything."_

He shook his head, " _People did terrible things to him as a child. Abused him. You understand? He is not touched improperly, ever, yes?"_

After a moment, Beatrice understood the more serious accusation in his inquiry. There were many problems in the Catholic churches these days among… priests. _"I assure you, we are the most honorable of caretakers. Only proven women of worth are here."_

" _They are...without men...maybe they get curious!"_

Aghast, she said, _"No, Señor Moreno, no. I promise you, he is treated with the highest of consideration. Properly. We are married to God, we are not…_ curious _."_

After some moments, he returned to Blanco's side. He picked up the sponge and took Blanco's hand in his and ran the sponge down his arm. He never did such a thing for his own children. He remembered the black soot and the blood. He wiped the imagined grime off his son. He swiped across his chest, swabbed his neck, his face. He moved and did the same on the other side. He thought of Téa, even thought of Rico. Guilt fired through him at the feel of the man's skin, of the incredible vulnerability of him just lying here, unable to defend himself. He thought of Blanco's children, knowing deeply, that Todd… the man… the father… had held them in his arms, had changed diapers, had washed them. He had spent hours with them. He loved them so very much.

He set the sponge down, unable to continue. The life he deprived so many of… was horrific. Téa's face loomed darkly at that, her hate. The way she stood at that table in the restaurant, her hands slamming down, the crescents of her ivory breasts. He held _Blanco's_ hand. He wasn't supposed to share too much information but he couldn't help it. He needed to confess.

" _I am sorry, my son. For this, for everything. Where is my brother? Do you know? Was it you? He deserved what happened. I am not angry at that. I am sorry for my role in that. I cannot make up for what he did to you, or for what your father did. I am sorry for everything. You deserved so much better."_

It was then that _Blanco_ opened his eyes. Pedro gasped a little. He knew it was a halfway point to consciousness because of the glassiness in those hazel-colored eyes. He did adjust his focus though, moved down to his hand in Pedro's. Eyes focused there. He breathed in deeply and Pedro could see that he bit down on his teeth, his jaw flexing.

" _Blanco?"_

His son's breathing picked up, turning quickly into a fast pant, his head jerked to the right, then the left, and like an explosion, he went into a massive seizure. Beatrice came running from the chapel across the way, having heard the telltale noise of the bed. The sister that had been tending to him earlier was on the other side of him, trying to minimize his flailing limbs. Pedro stepped back as Beatrice expertly turned him to his side, as she held him with hard hands and prayed over him, the two women now praying.

Pedro had never seen one up close, never. He knew of his son's condition but thought the fits to be rare. He was horrified at the violence of it, the blood that leaked into foaming saliva, the still present muscularity of his tensed body, how his eyes had rolled back so far only white was visible. How he did not breathe through most of it. Pedro could not believe his son had managed to cover that up in Statesville from all other than his closest compatriots, such as Rolon, his workers, those kids, those young men.

The thing finally ended, _Blanco_ taking long breaths, finally relaxing his muscles. He had closed eyes. He curled up on his side now, hands curled into him. He breathed noisily, his lips parted. The sister had pulled the sheet away from him and she fluffed it. He appeared like a child, naked but for folded cloth between his legs and tied around his hips, naturally curled into a fetal position. The sister flapped the sheet once more so it fluttered down onto _Blanco_ , covering him.

Beatrice looked at white-faced Pedro with some curiosity now. He was a handsome man, thick silver hair that flowed back, light brown skin that was taut with age, strong body evident through his Cuban-style shirt and pants. She guessed he was near 70. He had money, his fine European leather shoes telling her that. He wore a moustache and his features were hardened by a history that could only be filled with darkness. She knew he ruled _Los Reyes Del Mambo_ … the same name emblazoned on the belly of Angel. She waved him to her side, walking him to the chapel. She closed the door. The room was lit by lamps similar to those that marked the way up the stairs. This room had no windows. _Jesucristo_ hung on a cross here, too, naked, suffering… except for a cloth at His hips not unlike the one that wrapped _Blanco_.

Pedro collapsed on the pew, bending over and holding his head in his hands, slightly traumatized by what he had just seen.

" _The chief of police told me of you,"_ Beatrice said, " _begged me to take Angel on your behalf, that Angel needed protection. He said Angel had a Catholic medal around his neck. I saw it and agreed that God had brought me this man."_

" _What if he did not have the medal?"_

" _It is hard to say. There might have been other signs of my obligation to him. I feel it though, medal or no medal."_

Pedro lifted his head to the wooden beams above, to the imaged sky above. _"Do you know that a man gave him that saint_ _? Angel is loved not just by a wife, but by a male prostitute. Angel loved him back. They were lovers. That medal probably swung between them in bed, with the hard motions of carnality, sodomy. Would you have still taken him, knowing that? Knowing the medal was… insulted."_

Beatrice smiled. " _You think God cares of such things? He only sees souls. Two souls who love each other? That is not a barrier. Fucking is not a barrier to God's love. Never has been.."_

Pedro lifted a brow at her curse word. _"Try three souls. Mother. Perhaps the three fucked-Angel, his wife, and his lover. With that medal swinging."_

Beatrice shook her head. " _So God sees THREE. Three has spiritual meaning, you know._ "

Laughing sadly, _"Tell the Pope that."_

" _I listen to God, not the Pope. Some might say that is blasphemy. You should be glad of my… disagreements...with the Pope."_ She sat back, eyes again on Pedro. _"The chief told me nothing of the relationship between you and Angel. Are you another lover of his?"_

" _No."_

" _Does he dislike you, Señor Moreno? Does he have strong feelings about you, that are negative?"_

Pedro was silent for long minutes. He finally confessed what he was sure to be true. _"He hates me. I suppose that is not uncommon for men. For fathers."_

" _Are you his father?"_

" _Not by blood."_ He turned to Beatrice. _"But I love him like a son. I owe him a great debt. Did you receive my donation?"_

" _Yes. It will sustain us for another year. You have to know, however, money does not pay for sin. Did_ you _harm Angel during his life? This… abuse... you mention."_

A light went on for Pedro with this line of questioning. _"Are you saying his seizure was a reaction to me?"_

" _I believe it is. He has done that before. We figured out that he was experiencing pain when we were massaging his muscles too close to when we gave him the bath… too much touching. The small act you did of sponging him does not fit the pattern-that was not the trigger. It makes me think YOU were the trigger, your voice, your touch. Are you the one who abused him?"_

A breathy chuckle met Beatrice. In English, he said, "I did not abuse him in that way. Others did." He turned to her. "My brother for one. And I protected him for years. But I suppose...I abused him in other ways. You are probably right, Mother. If the only way to communicate in this purgatorial existence of his is in the form a seizure, violent, bloody, loud… then YES, I have no doubts he is telling me exactly how he feels about me." The chuckle turned into a laugh that accompanied tears. He returned to Spanish.

" _He will waken. I know this now. It is certain. Sister...Mother… you be careful when he does so. He is my son and he is a dangerous man. Do not be fooled by the quiet… on that bed… by his gentleness in sleep."_

" _I should be careful of you, too, then."_

" _Yes."_

" _Perhaps it's best that you go home. Leave Angel to us."_

" _No, I need to see him, I need him to see me."_

" _Why?"_

" _I prefer my battles up front and so does he. We do not like mysterious roads ahead."_

From then on, Pedro took _una casa de particular_ in town. He was to wait. Once there was complete wakefulness, he was to come to the convent. _Blanco_ would only see Pedro from a distance at first, to allow him to slowly come to understand that it was Pedro he was looking at. Beatrice was very confident there would be no seizure.

But she could not be sure there would be no violence.

Outside the tower, looking up, Pedro Moreno saw activity. He had arrived this morning on his usual visit to get an update. A sister stood at the window, her white habit rustling in the breeze. He had seen a gaggle of sisters running towards the sanctuary. Either _Blanco_ was dead or he was awake. Fully so. Full consciousness.

At that moment, he heard a bark and he turned. The black dog called Abram was pulling on a leash at his thick neck, growling, canines showing, saliva dripping at the eagerness. He barked more, aggressively. The young nun held onto the leash, held it hard, calling out, " _Abram! No! Stop!"_

It wasn't hard for Pedro to imagine his own throat being torn out.

 **To be continued...**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Caged: Reclamation**_

 **Chapter 6**

Téa walked through the old mansion on the outskirts of Llanview, kicking dust on the wrecked wood flooring as the real estate agent chattered like a duck about the history of Chartwell Manor, the fact that it was post-American-Revolution, luckily, coincidentally, not historically designated so you can make all the upgrades you want even though it is a 1778 stone farmhouse that the previous tenants had in their family all this time, transferred from father to son to son to son, etcetera, until just this year when the last member of the family died, a car crash, so tragic, but the price is so good considering-

The property was gorgeous, highly defensible. The land surrounding the farmhouse was dotted by sycamores and oak trees, featured rolling hills, and was backed by a large wash, kind of a moat. Nobody would be sneaking up on Method Makers, Inc., that was for sure. The rest of the property was guarded by a solid stone wall, coming around the front where there was a long driveway and an iron gate. The building itself was rundown, needed lots of work, probably needed demo all the way to the studs, but thanks to the zoning, she could easily update and refurbish to serve the company. She had plenty of money.

The agent chattered drone-like as Téa looked up the wooden staircase that went up the three floors. Watched a mouse run along the curved banister, up, up, up, brown and fast and scrambling like it was being chased by the devil.

At the very top she saw him.

She'd visited tens of houses and not in any of them did she see him. Bastard. He knew she liked this one. Liked how old it was yet if she wanted she could demolish it all to hell.

 _Bomb it_ , if you will.

He stood, grinning, hands on the railing, looking straight down at her, hair hanging. His chest was bare always so she could see his ink, the snake that crawled up his neck, black and deadly, next to the spider web on his shoulder and barbed wire on his biceps, the color of his life, his death, all foretold beneath his skin. Funny, that the letters identifying him as MK were lost to her, the exactness fuzzy, _Los Reyes Del Mambo,_ hidden. Ironic. A twist of reality.

The jeans still rode obscenely low to remind her of the angry cock beneath the buttons that tormented her at the beginning of their relationship and at the end. A sword that got him put into prison, then something he learned to forgive through love of her, and Rico certainly, loving Rico in his way, loving specifically with his hands and body, Rico's cock. How interesting that this most human body part that caused him, and others, such pain, ultimately tied them together and transformed them from the ordinary to something beyond all conventions, all papers, all traditional ideas of marriage and love, leaving everyone else in wasted space of suburban life.

 _My god, practically magical._

The ghost of Todd heard her and laughed, voiceless, grabbing his dick. _Don't you know it._ He never spoke out loud because she had forgotten the sound of his voice. She had banished it from her head so it was more an intentional forgetting. He hawked silently and spit and the glistening drop fell the three stories onto her outstretched palm. He gazed at her with an intensity she felt right down to her toes. Her eyes prickled despite forbidding herself to ever cry for him.

 _Can you feel me, Delgado? Can you taste me?_

He let go of the railing that kept him safe from a horrific fall, backing up into the dark until he was completely gone. Téa raised her palm to her lips and licked the wetness there. Rainwater that tasted like Havana nights outside Sylvia's _casa_ , like sweat on his neck after she fucked him good, like bittersweet come licked off Rico's chest and transferred to her in a kiss, like the tears of Lucia who cried into her pillow every night for her father who died in the undocumented unfair war that everyone refused to acknowledge, tears she hid from Téa who could hear her and yet could do nothing to soothe.

She held her hand to her eyes, blacking out any more visions, echoes of hurt resonating through her body that she fought, that she tried to diminish through her mantra she spoke hundreds of times every day to get her from one minute to the next.

 _Fuck you, you fucking bastard. You left me. I hate you with everything I am._

She breathed the must and wiped her hand on her hip. Must be a leaky roof. For the first time in her life, she understood his cigarettes being used to burn private parts. She wanted to do it too, burn herself, to stop the aliveness in her cunt, the thrum that told her she was a woman who had once been in love, who had loved so madly she had three children with him and then sacrificed them to run to Cuba, to save him once more, only to fail yet again.

Forever failed devotion. A spectacular fail.

 _I love you, Delgado._

"I'll take it," she said.

"You don't want to think about it?"

She laughed, the agent, a nervous laugh.

"I know when things feel right. Call my lawyer. Get it set up."

"Okay! You mean George Strauss? Fantastic! Wow! You gave me his card, yes, I have it. That was unexpected. Did you know that the family was a big prohibition-era smuggler of gin? And rumor says that-"

The place was perfect. Plenty of room for the offices she wanted, the two-acre property zoned for business or residential. It sat at the end of a road that passed a business park, a downtown area with a supermarket and little shops, miles of housing, before finally turning into the main highway that led to Llanview. It was a typical square-shaped farmhouse with matching square windows built out of matching square stones. Tons of weight that would probably survive a nuclear winter. The owners once owned 10,000 acres in all directions but slowly sold off bits and pieces until they were down to just the two that were left. She understood that kind of ravaging.

The afternoon was waning, darkness coming. She sniffed and turned on her heels to head out the front door.

"Did I mention the basement? The family housed slaves rescued from neighboring farms before heading north to freedom in Canada and if you wipe the grime you can see writings they left, faint scratchings of their African names to tell everyone who would come after them that they had once lived…"

Her cannabis monopoly, Method Makers, Inc., was going to have a new home and she was glad of it. They had long outgrown her tiny office on the boulevard in Llanview. She'd be glad to move away from the Sun building two blocks down that shadowed her tiny building. She hoped the renovations would go quick. She ignored the touch of his fingertips on the ends of her hair that felt like electricity as she stepped across the threshold, as the massive front door slammed shut.

 _Fuck you_ , she thought as she opened the door to the BMW, Rolon's eyes in the rear-view mirror.

"Slaves lived in the basement," she said. "Take me to the office."

As she drove down the driveway in her fancy sedan with the bullet-proof windows, she looked through the back window. She saw nothing but oak trees and the house. She turned to face the front once more.

* * *

The front of the wrap-around porch to the Manning home was littered with toys, a pretend oven and stove, a girl's bicycle flipped over, Reese's "tools" to the side. A chapter book sat open on one of the porch swings. Jedediah unlocked the door to his Moms' house and smiled to himself at the sound of Esperanza screaming her head off upstairs, the third au pair in the past month running to collect her.

"It's no good," he yelled.

As he thought, she kept screaming. Espy was six months old and an absolute demon in a cute-as-a-bunny baby human vessel. No doubt, his dad had blown himself up, got sent to hell, and burped up Esperanza as a constant reminder of him. Jed pounded up the stairs to her room where the latest, Marion, was frantically rocking her and pacing.

"Give her to me," he said, grabbing the hysterical girl into his arms. "Now, go downstairs, take a sip of whiskey to calm your nerves, and contact the missus of the house, Ms. Delgado, with the following message… 'Jed says get the fuck home to take care of Espy. I quit.'"

"But I don't quit."

"Yeah, you do. You're fired. Get the fuck out but don't leave until after you send that message to Ms. Delgado's cell phone."

"But sir, why?! I don't understand!"

"Fuckin' too long she's been crying and you were not in here. She's sweating like a pig. Get out."

The girl huffed and left the room. It was six o'clock and Viki was most likely on her way with Rose, Lucía and Reese, angels in comparison to Espy kicking in his arms. She was still crying but slightly less so. She only wanted Téa, that was her deal, and she was gonna demand Téa until she got what she wanted. They needed an Espy-whisperer but he wasn't sure that existed because, seriously, she was a hellish little thing that Jed loved like mad.

He smiled and walked and squeezed her tightly like how she needed. She had a hold of his hair, her cry piercing.

"Come on, girl," he said, "cool your tits. She's on her way."

Téa wasn't the same anymore. Jed missed her. He thought that when Espy came home from NICU that Téa would get better, would come out of her zombie state but no such luck because as it turned out, Esperanza represented everything that had gone wrong in Havana.

She would stand in her crib, standing way before she was supposed to according to all the textbooks while white-knuckling the railing, and scream like mad until Téa was huffing down the hall because Téa was the ONLY one she wanted. They had gone through a dozen helpers, all of them run-ragged by little Demonia, but she was all "fuck that noise, I want mama!"

Yeah, he had no doubts. Todd Manning aka _Blanco_ lived in that little girl and Jed in fact did get soothed by her special little crazy.

 _He was reminded._

Just like now, he would pick her up and she'd be screaming and he would rock her and she'd sniff like he was just the lowest piece of shit and he'd smile and he could swear she'd smile right back like _high five, brother, is that woman running like she should be? Is she getting that cereal like she supposed to? Is she on her toes serving the real queen of this house?_

And in her desire to get Téa to _run_ he could hear his own father's mean-as-fuck voice in his head, through little Espy, he could see that bare-chested bastard in the window of that Havana house the morning he called Jed to come get Téa who'd spent the night with him...

 _Wait over there, down the block. I wanna see her_ run. _Splash dem puddles with dem lawyer...boots._

Esperanza finally settled. He looked at her and she looked back at him with those hazel eyes all the Manning kids had and she licked her rosebud lips and hit his head hard with her little fist.

"Ow you little brat!"

He laughed, holding her hand, cuddling her, and walked downstairs to get her dinner. They had a cook, Hector, a professional chef who left everything ready to go, a typical healthy dinner for the family, all veggies and chicken and stuff. He picked at it while Espy kicked her legs and yelled incomprehensible words, probably cussing him out.

"Yeah, yeah, here, have a carrot."

He held the soft carrot piece to her mouth and she sort of gummed it and liked it and he smiled while he put her in her high chair which she hated, fighting the entire process. She was all stiff legs kicking at the chair, hands pulling his hair, and screeches. Five minutes later she was screaming as usual but firmly fastened and tucked in.

"You're stuck, dudette. No choice but to eat."

He got her little foods and sat next to her, the spoon getting her attention, her cries abating. Tears sat on her round cheeks, her large eyes on Jed as she tasted and ate the pureed peas and squash and other such un-yummy foods. Before long, the rest of the crew arrived and the usual chaos ensued. She'd just started eating cereal but Carlotta had suggested her crying was for real food and it did seem to be the case. Espy ate well and quite a bit.

Jed lived here now with his own daughter Rose by the late MK whore, Leticia. Rose looked enough like her to always make him smile. She was beautiful with her brown curly hair, six years old and in kindergarten, and a good friend to her cousins Lucía and Reese. They were their own little gang.

Téa finally arrived around eight, so fucking late, irritating Jed. She did bathe the kids like clockwork. Got all of them to bed. He did his thing with reading to Rose, talking about the day, and tonight, letting her know he was off on a job and he'd be back in a week. No longer. Five days was his promise.

"Pinky promise?" She asked.

"Pinky promise. I love you. Sleep. Ignore the devil girl if she cries."

Rose giggled and admonished him, "Daddy! Mama Téa says no names like that!"

"Okay, officer. Just Espy. Sleep." He kissed her and tickled her and then headed downstairs for the big fight that was coming.

He was headed to Havana and the real she-devil was gonna have a shit-fit over it but he had a job to do. Things needed looking into the truth of which he couldn't tell her because her grief-driven crazy couldn't handle it. So he was going to lie with an even bigger, more intolerable story. Shook his head as he skipped down the steps.

See, Bo Buchanan, their favorite commissioner, had contacted Jed earlier in the month and asked him to usher around town, Ian Correa, a Cuban underground reporter.

 _He has some crazy theories about the death of your dad. I figured you'd want in on it._

 _What are you talking about?_

 _I'm going to let him tell you all about it. You might have to go back to Cuba._

 _I don't ever want to see that goddamn island again._

 _I know, son, but I have a feeling you might be interested._

 _Téa will hate me going down there._

 _I know. So don't tell her specifics. Don't tell her anything of what you're doing. Find a cover. If you decide you should go._

So yeah. The reporter guy said the bombing scene was screwy, and the reports on Todd's death were equally as screwy. Jed knew the truth, of course, that Todd was killed in the bombing. He was letting the guy follow breadcrumbs and Bo wanted that to continue. Bo told Jed about the necklace.

 _Your dad wore a silver chain._

 _Yeah, Rico gave it to him. Something Catholic._

 _That's right. A picture of a saint on a pendant. But autopsy photos show a gold chain._

 _That's weird._

 _Yes, son, it doesn't make sense._

 _So… wait… what are you saying…_

 _He never wore gold chains and certainly didn't in Cuba._

 _So… the body that was Todd's body—_

 _Isn't._

 _Well, where the fuck is he? Who's in the urn?_

 _Let's not jump the gun, kid._

Bo told Jed he was pretty certain Manning was in that urn but that the Cuban government was playing games. Something else was amiss. Couldn't really guess at any of it. He shared the politics with Jed, that Manning was scrubbed as the potential bomber, that a notice went out saying he died from a drug overdose, a real American rock star death, because he was too close to Cubans and the government refused to acknowledge a bombing by one of their own, adopted or otherwise. It also marred the romantic claiming of Esperanza as a Cuban citizen. She had fans as one of the first babies born to a visiting American in Cuba's new Age of Enlightenment.

Again, Cuba wanted distance from Todd as a home-grown-of-a-sort terrorist even if he did take out twelve or thirteen pedophiles in the biggest child trafficking bust in decades or maybe ever.

The urn caught Jed's eye ever since. He opened it once. Looked at the ashes. He didn't know what he thought he'd find. Gold teeth which he didn't have? Barbecue ashes? Téa lost her shit when she caught him sitting on her bed with the box open. He swore he wouldn't touch it again. Had a lot of soothing to do. But he thought about it a lot.

He knew it was stupid. Rolon identified Todd's black leather boots that were found at the bombing site. They were the only shoes he wore those last weeks at Sylvia's. Jed remembered seeing them on him. He'd abandoned the more dressy stuff and the sneakers at the beach house after he split from Pedro, preferring to huddle with Rico, with his crazy in full fuckin' bloom. A man takes off his shoes when he's in a place to stay. He took those boots off. More crazy. Jed had a hard time picturing it. Walking around that house… shoeless. Bootless.

He didn't leave barefoot. He blew himself up… to Kingdom Come.

"Don't cry, baby," he heard Téa say, wrapping her arms around him. "It's okay, it's okay."

Jed couldn't stop himself, he was near sobbing it hurt so bad. He hated thinking of it, that day in the hospital, the day that police chief handed him Todd's wedding ring. He was in the kitchen doorway, holding the wall, and sniveling like he was eight years old all over again and his grandparents were telling him that Mimi had died. He had cried then, and lots of times after, but there was something far more devastating about this. Maybe it was his own investment. He had searched out Todd and found him and raised him up to be his dad. Yeah, yeah, that was it. In a way, Todd was like his very own child and he had to see all that work, all that love, tossed in the fucking trash.

 _Goddamn._

He stopped short of cursing out his dad because he could not do that to him. Téa was the big winner in that horse race. "Sorry, sorry…," he said, taking a breath, trying to stop, wishing he could stop on a dime like Téa did.

"You okay?"

He nodded, sniffing, her arms still around him.

God, he missed his Pops. For all the shit he and Jed went through with each other, there was nothing like being loved by him. It was fucked-up love, off the rails, and way too much information, but when his dad looked at him and said "I love you," Jed knew it was true. There was no lie in it, no bullshit, no judgment. It wasn't that Téa or Aunt Viki lied, or bullshitted, but he always had the sense that they _had_ to say that. They _could_ say that. His dad didn't drop those words as easily as Téa or Aunti Viki. He only said them to people… he really fucking loved. Jed could still feel the strength in his hug, hear the laugh, and smell those filterless cigarettes. He could hear him saying _fuck_ in every other sentence in all its grammatical shapes and sizes. Most important, Jed had known for a very long time that his dad would do whatever he needed to do to protect Jed, to get him on his feet, to keep him there.

He went to Statesville for him.

 _So you can't testify, so nothing you say can ever be used against me, so you never have yourself to blame. This is all on me, Jed. Don't you forget that._

Jed had all his letters from prison and those words followed him everywhere.

"It's okay, _mijo,_ it's okay."

Jed pulled himself together, straightening up, pulling out of her warm hug. She may be bitchy these days, but she didn't deny any of them her love. It was just a little harder to see in her new career of taking down _Los Reyes Del Mambo._

"I'll make us some coffee," she said, her eyes on his. "Yes?"

"Yeah, sure." Ambling to the island in their gourmet kitchen, Jed sat on one of the stools and leaned forward on his elbows.

"Night crew all at their posts, _jefa_?"

"Yes," she said, ignoring the slight edge in his voice, his mild disapproval of everything Téa did these days. She looked at him as she poured coffee in the coffee maker, filled up the carafe, and set the whole thing to brew. Jed had long lost his teenager look. He was a man, strong, muscled, a handsome defined face always needing a shave. So much like Todd without the hate. He was a good father and brother to all the younger Manning children, especially Esperanza who tormented Téa on a daily basis.

Jed had said why in that first week.

 _She's more like my dad than any of us._

It was true. Just like Todd, she screamed for Téa, screamed like she was dying. Only Jed could slow it down, could get her to take a breath. To just wait for Téa. But not unlike Todd, she had no patience and yet demanded it from everyone around her. Her temper was well formed in utero and it was a monster temper. Téa worried. Espy was going to be a very difficult child, a teenager who'd challenge everyone, and maybe… an adult doomed to a miserable life.

Or she'd be a judge, a hanging judge if they still existed.

Sometimes Téa would be rocking her and Espy would be looking up at her and Téa would swear the girl meant serious harm if Téa even thought about putting her back in the crib. Téa would just hold her harder, and promise love forever, and that it was okay to be mad but not okay to lose herself in all that mad. It was the only time Téa cried and that was for Espy.

Not Todd, never Todd.

Jed took the coffee mug gratefully. Poured milk and sugar and smiled to himself just a little. _Cafe con leche_ was a family favorite.

They drank in a peaceful quiet. For a while. Téa had a bad feeling.

"What is it?" she said. "What's going on?"

Jed huffed and looked at her over the edge of his mug. "You… uh… still cussing dad out?"

"A little."

"Why?"

Téa eyed Jed, then didn't. She tapped the counter. The curses running in her head like always. _Fuck you, you fucking bastard…_ , etcetera, etcetera. She straightened in her seat and breathed deeply, a meditative breath, the kind to ease aching bones and settle fiery nerves.

"He left us, Jed. He walked out of that hospital and blew himself up with intentionality. Aforethought. He is and will always be a fucking bastard for doing that." She told him like rote. It was a line she used constantly with herself and whoever else might ask.

Jed nodded. Drank his coffee. And once again, as he'd done a hundred times over since they got back home, he told her a reality that she refused to hear.

"He thought you were dead," he spat. "The doctor told us you were dead. And I saw the last bit of life go out in his eyes, Moms. _I saw it._ " Tears welled, tears running easily down his cheeks once again. "Whatever bit of sanity he had before that day… absolutely vanished. Right in front of me. Do you get that? There was nothing left of _him_."

That was more than she had ever allowed him to say. She usually cut him off at "the doctor."

Téa closed her eyes. She could not… do… this. The black wavered. The _truth_ weakened her. _No, no, no, no..._ The truth would destroy whatever bit of standing-on-two-feet was left in _her_. _Yes, I get that. Dear GOD, I get that._ Jed did not know this. She could not put words to it. She couldn't even NOD in an agreement because then… she would die from the grief. And all these kids would be left alone. Jed was right, of course, that she was being like Todd but she could NOT be HIM to THIS extent.

She would not let the life go out in her eyes. Hating was better than grieving. Her hate was the only thing that was keeping her alive.

"So what?" she said.

"Come on…"

"What? He had CHILDREN, Jed. He had FIVE-"

"He thought Espy was dead too."

"Okay…." Her voice was cold and tight with frustration. "Let's go with that. He had FOUR children that needed him. He had no RIGHT to do what he did. I _fucking_ hate him." Her last words were spoken through gritted teeth. She looked at Jed like he was the stupidest opposing counsel she'd faced in ages, like he went to a piece of shit law school and she didn't.

Jed sighed, leaned back, giving her his own cold eyes, his own judgment of HER legal education. "For someone who hates him so much, you sure are putting a lot of energy in being like him."

In any other place, in lots of other cultures, that would have warranted a slap across his face. She certainly looked fit to do it. He sipped his coffee, eyes on her. God, she was pissed. He knew he was right. He just couldn't… _quite…_ understand it. MK business, this gutting of MK with her legal marijuana business manned mainly by MK soldiers, was going to get her killed and she had to know it what with all the guards and bullet-proof glass and shit. She never really explained what she was doing other than a loose idea of getting back at Pedro Moreno which he got… but…

She didn't answer him. She just sipped and sipped. Yeah, pointless conversation, no shifting things, so… here goes nothing.

He put the mug down, thinking he might not finish that delicious coffee.

"I'm going to Havana," he said.

"Why?" Téa was very cool in her delivery of that inquiry, her fury boiling. She sipped. Brown eyes on his. Lips pursing when she swallowed the coffee.

"Um… a project?"

"What sort of _project_ could possibly have you going to _fucking_ Havana?"

The cool was warming over. Bubbles about to spill over the edges. She put her coffee down. Fingers still hanging on.

"Black market shit?" He felt his face stretch into a smile but he knew that wasn't exactly the outcome of the stretch. He really hadn't thought this through. So he stuck with black market, clarifying the story. "It's for RJ, it's for the Posse, I swear to god, nothing to do with MK, it's about the Black Cuban population—"

He had to duck. She took her coffee cup half full of coffee and milk and threw it so hard against the wall it exploded into a million pieces.

"Moms!"

"What is WRONG with you?!"

She took the saucer and threw it at him but he dodged it.

"They killed your father! Those bastards!"

She reached across the island and took his mug and also threw it, the thing sprinkling all over the place. He had once again dodged it.

"Fuck! Come on! He killed himself! He THOUGHT you were dead! _Cuba_ had nothing to do with it!"

"You are a backstabbing lying traitor, Jedediah Chant! You're doing this for MK and you know it! POSSE DOESN'T DO BLACK MARKET!"

"And you know this, how?! Because you're all of a sudden some gangbanging guru?!"

"Goddamnit, Jed!"

He laughed, an explosive uncontrollable laugh from nerves, nothing funny at all in her Espy-like tantrum. There was no denying that Téa Delgado had left the station of sanity, too, parent number three or was it five if he included his grandparents doing the same loco shit-dance. He knew she had her own deal, he knew—

"Mommy?"

Téa and Jed both turned to Lucía at the entrance, the girl's eyes big and fearful, her flowery pajamas hanging loose because they were just a little big for her.

Jedediah stepped over the mess and grabbed up Lucía, overstating the excitement, "Hey beautiful! Whatcha you doin' up? Too noisy or something?"

He glared at Téa before turning back to his half-sister.

"Yeah," Lucía said, tears now coming, her small features crumpling.

Téa was frozen, ashamed, and still fuming at Jed for even considering such a trip even if it was for goddamn sightseeing. Cuba killed Todd, MK did too, and yes, he died at his own goddamn hand.

"Well your mama was testing out those cups and it turns out they are not break-proof!"

"Oh Jed that's a dumb story," she sniffed, snuggling, still crying a little. "Mommy is not that dumb."

"I'd never tell a dumb story."

"You kind of do. Sometimes."

He kissed her hard on the cheek, getting her to smile at last through her worried tears. He then swept her away back upstairs, not giving Téa a chance to assure her. As he bobbed and weaved down the hall to her room, she was totally giggling.

Downstairs, Téa was sick at herself. Tonight, Jed, that one-time truant, weed-smoking rebel, was a far better mother than she was. He was right in everything and she knew he understood none of it. She wished she could explain but she literally could not, physically unable to speak to any of it. She went to the utility closet and pulled a broom out, a pan. Proceeded to pick up the pieces. She was useless in so many ways.

When he returned from getting Lucia back in bed, Jed walked right up to her and said, "I'm going and there's not a fuckin' thing you can do about it. I got my reasons so suck it up, cupcake."

He kissed her forehead. Left her standing with a broom in her hand not unlike a witch and a storm of hate in her eyes. Yeah, his Moms had lost her mind and he didn't blame her.

He blamed _Blanco._

And he wasn't going to just sit by and do nothing. His dad had died and this government was fucking around with it and if the best thing that could come out of his project with Ian Correa was getting his dad's body back or the right ashes then a few broken cups were worth it.

 **To be continued...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 7**

Learning to walk again was brutal and proved Raquel to be the tougher person.

" _You want to be crippled? You want to live the rest of your life in that wheelchair? Here? Serving God and the Sisters? Try again."_

He was on the ground for the umpteenth time, sweating, tears in his eyes, muscles strained and refusing to do what he asked of them. The sisters had given him clothes, simple black sweatpants, tee-shirts, socks, sneakers. All worn, all shared by the community for people like him… orphans. The set he wore today was soaked from the stress, from the fight to regain the use of his body.

He searched this section of the winery for available bottles and had an idea that he'd drink himself numb, right here, where he sat. He didn't even have the ability to snap back at Raquel and her braids. Words got stuck the more he wanted to say them. He closed his eyes and felt her dip down in front of him.

" _Try again, Angel."_

He glared at her.

" _What? Tell me."_

He breathed hard, trying to say what bothered him so deeply. But as soon as his mouth, his tongue, headed towards spilling the words, the whole thing fizzled. More often than not, he said nothing. It was the most frustrating thing he'd ever experienced in his life. Raquel promised it would get better but he wasn't feeling the positivity.

They were in a large quiet barn of sorts where the barrels of Caribbean wine aged until it could be bottled. The floor was concrete and cold on his ass. He was supposed to practice walking using the double bars that served as a barrier between one set of barrels and the others. Couldn't be a better way to do this, he got that. He wore gloves since the bars weren't actually meant to be used this way.

"Not… my name," he huffed.

" _No, it is not. It is a joke on you. The sisters do not know the joke. Tell me your name then."_

More impossibility. Names. None came to him. Tears finally spilled down his cheeks, hot and full of resentment. He glanced up at the bars on both sides of him. No, he couldn't do it. Could not pull himself to his feet. Even his upper body lacked strength he used to have.

" _I can tell you,"_ she said, " _this is easy in comparison to what you endured as a child. To what made you tattoo the name of those criminals on your skin. This is easy in comparison to the long months in Havana you endured away from your family. This is easier than what brought you to the sisters. The crime."_

She was careful not to reveal details. It was to encourage him to fill in the blanks, to get to the names he did not want to reach for and find. She was not exactly sure what he knew and what he didn't other than the one time he asked if any innocents died. Clearly, he remembered her promise that if innocents died in the bombing, she'd kill him. He obviously knew his name wasn't _Angel._ He spoke enough to get his needs met and expressed enough to show that he grieved something. But he clarified nothing.

The mention of his family got him to look at her. He held her gaze.

It weakened her. She reached out and held his head. " _Tell me about them. Tell me their names."_

The tender sound of her voice only drove more tears to his eyes and a restrained sob. It was a recognized rarity of kindness that hurt so much. She leaned into him and held him. " _Stubborn man,_ " she said softly. " _You have done enough for this morning. Let us eat lunch."_

In Spanish he said, _"I am not... hungry."_

" _You have to eat. You need energy to continue to practice. You cannot stop practicing."_

And that got fire.

"For fucking… WHAT?"

She stood up. Crossed her arms. She smiled. " _Look around. This will be it for you. You practice so you can go home."_

He could see it, the porch, the grassy yard, the garage with his cars. _Home._ He could hear the giggles, the—

No, no more. He did not want to walk through the front door, he didn't want to see their delicate faces, or feel of their little bodies in his arms, _no, no, no..._.

Abram came running into the winery, Anna chasing him. She came to a hard stop when she saw the tension on the faces of _Angel_ and Raquel.

" _Ahhh difficult morning? Mí pobre Angel."_

" _Do not baby him, Anna. He needs to be strong."_

 _Angel_ shook his head, embarrassed at the level of vulnerability he felt. Yeah, like Raquel tried to say, this was nothing in comparison to other things. Like the embarrassing ways he received care by Sister Maria, Theresa… Raquel. _Jesus Christ._ He knew it was worse before, when he was in his coma or whatever. Perspective didn't reduce the shame of the moment.

The dog was happy to see his true person, climbing and licking and snuggling, short tail wagging. _Angel_ pet him at first but then just held him and put his face on the dog's warm body. Abram knew his job and immediately stopped playing, moving to allow the needed cuddle.

Anna and Raquel exchanged glances, Raquel without words saying _this is to be expected._

When _Angel_ let go of Abram, after nearly fifteen minutes, Anna and Raquel then helped arrange _Angel_ in the chair to wheel him to the main building to eat in the dining room with the other sisters. Once they locked the doors, they hit the path through the acreage, through the coconut and banana trees.

The women chattered and he studied the plants along the way. The day was sunny with a slight haze to it, humidity, the ever-present possibility of rain. The place would be so very dark at night and the idea of it made him shiver with a childlike fear.

It was in this slightly uncomfortable space that he saw a man coming towards them. Older, in classic Cuban dress-wear consisting of the _guayabera_ in ivory, black slacks, leather shoes. His silver hair was slicked back and he wore a thick mustache. _Angel_ stared at him as he moved towards him.

And all of a sudden he realized that he knew this man.

 _Ohhh shit, oh shit, oh Jesus fucking Christ._

His breathing began to speed up. Pictures began to fly, slamming in and out, fast, fast. A gun in his hand. Pointed straight at the silver-haired man, center mass, as he lay in the arms of a lover, _him,_ beautiful _him_. Should have done it. Should have ended things. Should have pulled the trigger. He lay on a floor in a restaurant, saw the legs of a table and was getting the holy fuck beaten out of him, a boot to his kidneys, to his ribs, to his head. In another time he heard the man say in Spanish, _you will fuck her like a gentleman... you will do this so I can be assured you're not abusing your gentle wife. If you don't... I will remove the color... I will cut out every line from your throat to your cock._

He wanted to puke, vomit his entire insides out at the feet of the man ahead of him. It was all he could do to stop himself from actualizing the desire.

He shuddered, grunted hard, heard himself say on that same night, _I am MK. It is a privilege to be a non-Cuban in MK. I owe you my life._

The one name he knew, MK _,_ Mambo Kings, _Los Reyes Del Mambo,_ because it was printed on his belly. He couldn't miss the words there. They screamed at him every single fucking day.

Raquel saw the impact Pedro Moreno was having on _Angel_ and she sneakily waved a hand in warning.

 _Go away, take a turn. He is not ready for you._

The man slowed his walk, moody eyes hard on _Angel_ , and made a turn down another path. Anna too had slowed her push. As the trio passed by where the man turned, _Angel_ turned to watch the last vestige of the man he most definitely knew, watched him disappear into the forest.

He grabbed Raquel at his side and they had to stop.

" _Do you know him?"_ Raquel asked. He was still breathing hard, eyes still on the ghost down the path.

" _He killed...her!"_

Raquel got a hard look on her face. In English this time, she demanded, "Killed…who? Speak...the name."

"You know... who!" Those hot angry tears started up again. " _Her_!"

"Speak the name!"

But he couldn't. Despite his resistance, her face drifted into his head, a thousand moments of looking at her, a thousand conversations with her like a symphony, and she was like that song, a diamond in a black sky, shiny savage love flying off her, promising everything, and yes, it was like that song that was really about drugs…

 _Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds…_

 _Lucy._

 _Lucy._

 _Luc…_

 _Luc… i…_

 _I love you, Daddy._

"I can't," he choked out, his hand slamming to his mouth to stop a mad sorrow from bursting forth. "I can't…I can't…", he repeated over and over through a breathless wave of crying, the pain of loss crushing his chest like he would die.

" _Okay chiquito, okay. It is okay."_

She held him now, rubbing his back and shaking her head, eyes on Anna and babying him exactly as she prohibited Anna from doing. She didn't care. She was angry at her sister for her rules on what they could say.

" _Basta, basta, Angel. It is okay. Shhh…okay, okay."_

When he got better control, when that cutting sadness at the loss of _her_ and the sickening truth that he'd left his children and they were orphans now… when it all faded, the walk continued. Anna whistled and Abram hopped right onto _Angel's_ lap to ride along, to allow cuddling.

As they moved beyond the path, Anna grunting as she pushed the wheelchair over a rough path, he turned to find the man that he knew killed _her_ , beautiful _her_ , killed her in some way that wasn't direct, a killing in a hundred steps, a killing just the same, but he was gone. He hugged Abram to him, his name hovering too. The sisters told him, called it out all the time, but it vanished just like all names that mattered did, scampering like squirrels…

Or maybe more like cockroaches in the light.

# # # #

Beatrice sat next to Pedro in the convent's Sanctuary, afternoon light shining through stained glass windows. The saints represented surrounded them in blues, reds, golds, and greens. They'd been boarded up since the 1960s after Castro took power and places such as these were outlawed. But last year things changed and down the boards went and there were the saints again. Inspiring, soul-soothing.

Earlier, Anna had run to the Mother Superior, deeply concerned that a killer was in their midst. She told her what _Angel_ said about the man that had been spending time here. Beatrice didn't get a chance to question Raquel, choosing to let her tend to _Angel,_ to let the rest of the sisters mother him in the dining hall.

In a grievous voice, she asked, "He seems to believe you killed his wife. Did you harm her?"

Pedro shook his head at first, then sighed heavily in resignation. "I brought him to Havana. It is here he learned of my brother, Manuel. Manuel harmed him when he was young. I protected Manuel. That knowledge broke _Blanco._ It led to the bombing."

"You are skipping stones. Did you do something to her that makes him think you killed her?"

"Perhaps he believes my bringing him here contributed to her death, that protecting my brother led to her death. Which means I killed her. It is like him to think that."

She considered his words in a lengthy quiet, her hands folded in her lap.

"Did you bring him into MK? He never would have been in Havana if it was not for him being a part of… the organization."

It was Pedro's turn to sit in a quiet space. The answer was clear.

"Do you believe in Hell, Mother?"

"I believe, yes. We are in it."

"I agree." He paused. "Do you believe in redemption?"

"Through hard work, prayer, true change, yes. There can be redemption, and forgiveness."

"But aren't some things unforgivable, irredeemable?"

Beatrice sat back and roved the ceiling, like a sky, like the heavens. "People may not be able to forgive. Human beings. We are deeply fallible. In that, yes, some things are not forgivable. But God forgives all. He is the Great Redeemer. We should look for His forgiveness while we work towards true change, while we accept what we've done wrong, while we work towards paying reparations to the injured. Even if the injured will never forgive us."

Pedro leaned forward and held his head in his hands.

 _True change. Reparations._

How could he do any of that when a war rages on? He'd lost so many men over the past year to death and now to Téa Delgado. She was single-handedly gutting MK through forced attrition. He didn't blame her. He admired her! So clever to take advantage of new laws that served young people's vices. His men ran to her.

But in doing so she destabilized the gangs in the region. Chaos had descended with the reduction of MK power, the worst quietly rising in strength and influence: _Los Muertos,_ a brutally violent Cuban organization in tight with a Mexican cartel out of Sinaloa that Pedro always kept at bay. No longer.

 _Los Muertos_ were flying low _como buitres,_ circling abandoned corpses. They were going to land. And soon. Either Téa did not know of _Los Muertos_ or she did not care.

The latter was very possible. Her own bombing of the world.

True change lay in acknowledgement. Pedro accepted his lifelong misdeeds. And to alleviate some of it, he needed his right hand man back. He needed him to get out of that chair and take what was rightfully his so that hell would stay in the beneath, so those vultures would stay away.

 _Kingship._ The Mad King needed to come home. Needed to reclaim the crown of thorns.

The question was, how could he get _Blanco_ to set aside his hatred of him? The seizure at seeing him when he was still waking, and today, the obvious rage that came… Pedro had no idea how to fix _that._

"It is my recommendation that you should leave, sir," Beatrice said. "Your effect on him is not helpful to his recovery. He needs to come to his reality… first… before he sees you again."

"I saw it. Yes. It breaks my heart."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "I am glad you have one to break."

"I will remain here for another week. I won't visit anymore unless he… _comes to his reality_ … and you feel he is ready."

"Thank you. Bless you."

"Am I blessed?"

"Are you not a child of God?"

"I suppose so."

"Then He blesses you."

Pedro stood and walked out.

Immediately, Raquel entered the Sanctuary and moved in to the place next to her sister.

" _You sent him home?"_

" _Yes_."

" _Good. We have to correct your Angel's wrong belief about his wife. He could not get back to practicing today after lunch. He is in the tower room, not speaking at all, in a deep sleep that easily could be a regression. The grief is preventing forward movement."_

The Mother Superior kept her eyes on the great wooden crucifix on the wall. She did not answer for a few minutes. Then she nodded.

" _You are right. We have to tell him. Getting back to her will be a significant motivation. He cannot continue in such paralyzing grief."_

" _Praise God! You agree with me."_

" _I am not an idiot, Hermana."_

She responded with a Spanish version of, _"You are here… soooo…"_

Beatrice laughed softly and squeezed Raquel's hand with warmth. " _Go to Angel when he wakes. Ask questions. Push to allow an opportunity to correct his mistaken belief."_

Raquel hoofed it. She was so very relieved but also afraid. She hoped they were correct—that he would be motivated to get better. And go home.

But another part of her did wonder whether the devil would wake at that, too, whether the joke of being called _Angel_ would at last be understood.

# # # #

R.J. Gannon nodded to the coroner, confirming the identity of one of his bouncers at the club. Ziggy had been a Posse member, an immigrant from Jamaica, young. He had no family, only son of parents killed in a car crash in Kingston when he was 14. No extended family that mattered. Missionaries brought him to the U.S. at 18 and he landed at the club at 20. Posse took him up quick.

So yeah, R.J. was it. The kid was killed in a shootout with unknown assailants. Blew out his chest. Down, depressed, he walked out of the chilled room with the steel tables, dreadlocks swinging. He wore his usual black slacks pressed, an azure knit shirt gentle on his skin. Didn't need a jacket in this late summer weather. His alligator-skin boots made too much noise on the floor.

He raised his eyes to Bo Buchanan who stood at the doors with his arms crossed, looking grim.

"Sorry about your friend."

"Yeah, lucky no mama to be informed. I'll be the only one crying at his good-bye."

"You hear anything about the killers? Grapevine?"

"No."

"We have."

There was something dark in the commissioner's eyes.

"Floor's yours."

"The Posse ever—"

"I don't—"

"I don't care, Gannon. I'm wanting… what do the kids say? I'm trying to be real."

R.J. shook his head, chuckling a little. As much as he was capable of any kind laughter considering he just got done identifying a 22 year old kid who hardly even knew how to fuck.

"Aight," he said tightly.

"Does the Posse have dealings with any Mexican cartel?"

"Hell no."

"Was Ziggy wayward? Drifting from Posse?"

"Not that I know. Think I woulda heard that."

Bo reached into his jacket pocket, the ends of his bolo tie glinting in the fluorescents. He pulled out an evidence bag. Two largish bullets. ".223s from an AR-15. These killed your friend. Ballistics showed markings similar to a ATF tracked weapon lost in Mexico."

"Fast and Furious?" R.J. was aghast, referring to a political scandal some years back.

"That's exactly right. The AR-15 was lost in that operation. Analysts figured cartels absorbed the weapons. It's not conclusive but…" He let the idea float, his voice trailing.

"MotherFUCK."

"Ask questions maybe?"

"Could be crossfire maybe?"

"Ziggy had a Glock."

"I know. Cost a'business. I ain't hiding."

"He only got one shot off."

R.J. sighed, glancing down. A pit in his belly. He had thoughts on this. Relating back to a particular _Puertorriquena_ he knew, that he hardly recognized these days. He lifted his eyes to Bo's.

"I'll ask around. Keep my ear—"

"I had a conversation with Téa Delgado a while ago—"

R.J. couldn't help the soft grunt at the coincidence of Bo mentioning her just as he was thinking on her. Bo ignored the instantaneous response.

"She mentioned a Cuban rival to MK known as _Los Muertos._ She was worried taking out Moreno and Manning might lead to them moving in. Ever heard of them?"

Snorting, R.J. hissed, "Yeah. They was big in Joliet, but they ain't here."

"You sure about that?"

After a meaningful glance, Bo patted R.J. on the shoulder and headed down the hall, saying, "Ask questions, Gannon, ask questions." He disappeared into the coroner's office.

R.J.'s palms were sweating and he wiped his hands on his thighs. He started walking, fast. Exited the section. Pulled out his cell and dialed the only person he trusted out of MK who knew Téa as well as he did, who was now real goddamn close to her bullshit. There was an answer on the fourth ring. R.J. stepped outside LPD. The sun was too damn bright.

Heard a raspy, "Gannon?"

"Da fuck she doin', Rolon? I jus' got news I mighta lost one of my people to fucking _Muertos?_ I thought those fuckers got kicked back to hell ten goddamn years ago. By _you_ all. _"_

Rolon was dead silent. He was moving. Fast. A door slammed. Sounded like an office door.

"You sure?"

"Naw! I ain't sure about shit! But lemme tell you, Bo Buchanan sounded sure as fuck. You got an eye on her? Like a hard motherfuckin' _eye?_ She ain't the same and you know it."

He got defensive. "What makes you think she got shit to do with those assholes!"

"Because she's fucking around with your goddamn people!"

" _Muertos_ ain't my people."

"MK for fucking life, though, ain't that right?"

"I'm outta that."

"I call bullshit. Method Makers is just another branch off the tree and it is having an impact, Lopez, and my question is if this is the plan. Bring _Muertos_ in to have a holy war, bring them in to do killing she won't do on her own."

Rolon was eerily quiet. Finally, he said, "Straight up honest, I got no idea here. I'll dig. Real sorry for your loss, man. Who was it?"

"A kid. 22 year old. This ain't good. I gotta bad feeling."

R.J. hung up. He hadn't seen Téa in ages. Read about the waves she was making in the cannabis business. He saw her at Manning's memorial and she'd made the angriest iciest widow he ever saw. She hardly looked at him. Two months later, she was slangin' like the best… just legal. It had been six months now and she was blasting all competition out of the water.

Her company looked like any other other startup except for one eye-catching trait that few noticed: all her employees, most, were ex-gang members and their women. Funny how that got past journalists. It was the ladies who disguised that truth.

Main labor source: MK. Meaning, who was mindin' the MK store?

R.J. sent out a text: _Meeting at the club. Mayday. Midnight. Bring captains._

He needed information ASAP from Posse. He had to know who Ziggy had been hanging with when he was killed. He needed witnesses. He had a really bad fuckin' feeling on this.

He turned the key and sped off. "What are you doing, girl?" He decided it was time for a visit to a certain law office.

# # # #

Téa was working up a lease agreement that could be used by dispensaries in medical marijuana states, part of the upcoming expansion. The company was growing like crazy, already needing more than the three other offices in the building for sales, R&D, and operations, in addition to various facilities across the northeast. She also started hiring full-fledged lawyers to handle the criminal defense work. She had to be careful. Overly speedy growth could be disastrous.

She paused, glancing at her cell. Nothing urgent. She ignored it and went back to working. She hadn't heard news from Jedediah yet. He was scheduled to land in Havana this afternoon. After their fight, Téa had no choice but to trust he knew what the hell he was doing. A hard step but she had to do it.

 _Trust was a cruel bitch._

Gloria popped her head in and smiled, yes, that Gloria, unofficial leader of MK women, "Téa, I have Sonia on line one? Her husband was MK and was killed three months ago...she has no job, no money, two children…? Sounds like another potential."

Téa nodded, "Definitely. Schedule a full interview. Let's see what her options are. Let's see if we can add her to the possible Moreno lawsuit."

She was working a novel case, bringing in wives of murdered MK gang members and suing the hell out of Pedro Moreno for causing the deaths of those men. She was in the research phase. She was banking on massive settlements, banking on Moreno's guilt. Biggest risk was Moreno turning and blaming Todd. She didn't think it was likely.

Another smile, a return back to her desk. She'd become Téa's administrative assistant, a not-very-long story.

When Gloria returned from Havana with Pedro, he had released her to the world. When Gloria saw the exodus of MK soldiers to Téa's new company, she showed up too and the first thing she said was…

 _I'm sorry about your husband. I want to do right by you for whatever role I might have played in your loss. What can I do?_

It was an ugly moment, Téa having to mindfully breathe through it, her awareness of exactly who Gloria was to him in Havana grating and torturous, knowing she also was a long-time lover to Pedro himself, but Gloria was persistent and strong. She stood her ground. She knew a lot and before Téa could throw her out Gloria said…

 _I helped him, Ms. Delgado. We worked hard to end Moreno. I was not a loyalist like you might think. I want to do more._

 _Why? He treated you well. Like Rolon, he let you go._

 _Blanco made me face something I put aside for a long time. A truth._

 _What?_

 _I was raped by Pedro when I was fourteen years old and a desperate, fearful runaway. He subjected me to dangerous people. As an MK prostitute. I was lucky… I am lucky to be alive._

 _Was… Blanco… one of those dangerous men you were subjected to?_

That was a hot question, complicated. Téa didn't even know why she asked it. It was reminiscent of why Téa shot Todd in her own kitchen. The bastard. On the other hand, a tiny part of her wanted a denial.

 _Yes. I knew the worst of your husband._

The worst. That sealed the deal. Gloria was not a person to lie, to put _Blanco_ on a pedestal. She had guts to stand in front of Todd's wife, look her in the eye, and say, I survived _Blanco_ because of… _luck._

 _Can you type?_

Téa hired her. She needed people with the same interests, needed a woman former MK men were humbled by. She'd look at them with those dark judging eyes and they'd do whatever she asked. It brought Téa no end of entertainment. Within weeks of hiring Gloria, she promoted her to Operations Manager. Gloria though often acted as direct assistant to Téa, still.

And then one evening over a needed whiskey after a crazy day, they'd been sitting side by side on the little leather sofa in Téa's office and Gloria said, _he loved you, you know, loved you like nothing—_

Téa hadn't let her continue. Couldn't. She pushed herself up against Gloria and drunkenly put her fingers on Gloria's lips and said raggedly, _no, no, no, no, don't talk about it…_ to which Gloria said, _you're just like him. Living with too hard a love to look at afterwards, trying to pretend it didn't happen._

 _I don't love him anymore._

Gloria wrapped her arms around Téa and kissed her at that, a full-mouthed woman's kiss that Téa had never had before, tasting whiskey and compassion and a kind of sexual bonding that was completely foreign to her, that was too close to Rico and Todd, and her heart had almost cracked open at that, the grief almost blowing up inside of her, but it didn't. She stopped it. She had gently separated and shook her head saying _thank you_ anyway for a warmth she simply couldn't do.

It wasn't that experimenting was not possible, she was always adventurous, but that all sexual affection was… just… beyond her. She felt things sometimes but to do it would say she was alive and real and capable of joy.

Which she was not. Not any of it.

 _No, no, no, no…._

Gloria had thereafter become a solid worker, more loyal than anyone, and she well knew her boundaries. She knew Téa in a strangely comforting way. They had become friends.

Gloria would have have a lot more responsibilities in coming months. She was going to be Director of Operations.

The new building, Chartwell Manor, was six weeks from being move-in ready. Téa paid a lot of money to speed up the work. It was good what with fifteen offices, two conference rooms, fully networked, kitchen, a small gym. There was even a small apartment on the top floor.

Téa could stay there when needed.

Outside, she heard a ruckus, friendly noise, and she stood up to see the commotion. She went to the door and Gloria was smiling and arranging a bouquet of flowers in a vase.

"Look at what Mr. Gannon brought you."

Téa laid eyes on R.J. and she was surprised a small smile made her way to her lips. She was surprised that she had to glance away at the sting. She turned around and went back to her office, to her desk. Saying nothing. She swallowed the stone in her throat and stared at her lease. Caught a typo.

 _Their_ needed to be _there_.

Gloria wasn't sure if that was an okay-come-in or get-the-hell-out but R.J. didn't give her a chance to decline him. He followed Téa inside her office with all her law books and her filing cabinets and her computer and the windows overlooking Llanview boulevard and shut the door behind him.

She was typing.

 _Tap, tap, tap._

"Talk to me, woman. Tell me everything. Let me help you."

It was too much. He was too much. He was and would always be in her heart and she took a breath and looked at him, at that kind, handsome face, those deeply loving eyes, those dreadlocks, his confident assuring stance… and she remembered how many times he caught her when she was falling, falling...she could hear music and tasted vodka and she was suddenly being picked up in Todd's arms and he was cradling her naked body in a blanket right out of R.J.'s office, walking to a stolen truck…

 _That's what this is about? Me killing myself? Delgado... shit. I'm fuckin' immortal and you know that. I'm never leaving you, no matter what it might look like. And you know what else? There isn't anything you can do to chase me away. You can be the whore of the century... and I'll still come and get you._

And she cried. He was never supposed to leave her.

With a pained gasp, she crumpled into herself with a hard sob. For the first time since she left Havana…

… she cried for Todd.

 **To be continued...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 8**

Téa managed to pull in the great hurricane of grief, leaving her wrecked and lying on the couch with her head on R.J.'s chest, resting in his arms. She was holding him by the neck, tightly. As if she needed him to survive. And she had. Survived. No more active tears now, no more of the storm.

It had been a long time since R.J. had held her this way. He was caressing her hair that had grown long, her silky locks, not speaking, knowing that she had been keeping in that sorrow for months. He knew this because Jedediah kept him in the loop. _She never cries. She just rages, all the time, hating him._ Despite her newfound state of being a warrior, she seemed light like a butterfly, delicate.

Oh so breakable.

The night had come, Gloria and the part-time attorney in the other office in her suite having gone home. Téa was in her power-suit, they all were power-suits, really, black linens, plum silks, some brand of sandal. Her toenails were painted black. Her fingernails were French-tipped. When she fell into herself at her desk, wracking sobs heartbreaking to hear, to see, R.J. had run to her, embracing her, saying _sorry, sorry,_ over and over. No words could console her. She cried and cried, nearing a wail, cried until he lifted her up out of that desk chair and carried her to the couch, the two falling into it in a messy pile. He found himself crying with her, for her. This was nothing he could fix.

 _I'm so sorry, baby girl. I am so so sorry._

Her cell phone buzzed on the desk.

"Home callin' you for some time, girl. Wanna pick up?"

"If it was an emergency they'd call Rolon and he'd be here."

"Want me to order food?"

"No, not hungry. Unless you are?"

"Nah, I'm good."

She finally sat up, kicked her sandals off, and curled up on the other side of the couch from R.J. She wiped her face, breathed in deeply. The grief had been put back on the shelf inside of her, but the box was open, hurt still spread throughout her body. She felt heavy, broken, run-over. She was outta gas and abandoned on the road, damn it. She had to pull herself together. She'd be better tomorrow à la Gone with the Wind.

 _After all, tomorrow is another day!_

"I'm sorry," she said. "Seeing you was like seeing… my grandmother." She laughed a little, "Not that you look anything like her."

He smiled and tilted his head, "I get it. I consider it an honor." After a minute he said, "I worry about you everyday, Téa."

"I know. I'm not... myself. I threw coffee mugs at Jed the other day. Please know, I fully intended to hit him."

"What happened?" His face had gotten serious. He cared for, even loved, that kid.

"Told me he was going to Havana. After all that happened… why? He gave me some story."

"Why IS he going there?"

"Does it matter? He's stabbing me in the back by wanting to set foot in that place. He was supposed to land this afternoon. He hasn't called yet to let me know he got there safe and sound. Little jerk is probably-"

"He'll call."

R.J. didn't push. That was a strange thing alright. And to do it without telling R.J. was even stranger. The two looked at each other for some moments. R.J. broke the silence.

"Jed says you never cry… for Manning."

She was studying the dark windows, the sounds of the evening traffic breaking through. "I'll fall into a hole if I do," she said quietly, "a pit I'll never come out of. Tonight was just a taste." She added in a soft voice. "You made me weak."

"It ain't weak. He was your world. More than that… crazy as you are for making him that."

She smiled sadly. "It doesn't make sense to people. I'm aware. I've heard it for years."

R.J. sighed, looking at her. Trying to imagine how Manning could ever fuck things up with her, how he could not see what he had or…

"I know what you're thinking," she said.

He rolled his eyes and offered a crooked, apologetic smile. "I couldn't abide him much."

"I know. I've heard it for years. From you." Her features gentled in a tender recollection.

"And you ain't someone to listen to objections."

She shook her head, looking at her hands, not really here.

"He and I loved each other _outside_ of this world. I knew he and I were forever. Above, beyond... _everything."_

R.J _._ said nothing. Just listened.

She chuffed. "I can't explain it. No words for it."

"Try me"

He hated hearing it but he wanted her to talk. The tears had left her with reddish eyes, slightly swollen cheeks and nose. She looked terribly young, vulnerable.

She shrugged, thinking on it for a bit. Then, "He didn't share himself, his real whole self, with others. I was it. It didn't start out that way, but… it became that. We grew our love out of a broken foundation. His sickness, addiction, Brandy. I grew to know and love that man with all his wounds and the corrupted ways he tried to manage them. And there was something really…" She paused, smiled, lost a little. "There was something intoxicating in that. To know him, to know he could be drawn to such wrongness, to fall… even in bed with another woman or… people think that's the worst thing that can happen but it isn't… to know I still held more over him than anyone…than anything? He always came home to me." She sighed, sorry to have to say this to R.J. of all people who knew this truth better than anyone. "And I did the same. I always went home to _him_. It was addicting in and of itself to _win_ in some ways, over and over. A roller coaster I didn't want to exit. He was _my_ heroin."

"Even with… Rico?"

She laughed quietly. "Trying to be lawyerly with me?"

"I kinda got a sense of somethin' different with him, from what Jedediah said. Different beyond...the obvious..."

"Rico _was_ a little different. Other than he was a lover with a—."

"He was not Leticia or Jovanna."

"No. Todd actually loved Rico. Deeply. Rico probably had the most of Todd than any of them. But it was… complicated? Probably wouldn't have happened if I hadn't shot him."

"You did do that."

"I didn't shoot _Todd…_ I shot _Blanco."_

R.J. made a noise between a growl and sigh, an acknowledgement there. _Blanco_ had well earned those bullets. But the man Téa loved, the "Todd" she described? Considering his torturous upbringing, the hard slog through addiction, the miraculous attainment of a family and children… with a woman he did love, R.J. never doubted that, for her to turn on him that night, after all the shit he'd ever done… yeah. He _could_ imagine things might be different after that night.

"But what you don't know," Téa said, "what Jed may not know, is that we found each other again in Havana, in a new way, the most truthful way. With Rico! _Las tres en la cama, desnudo, puro, con la lluvia cayendo afuera de nuestra ventana."_

R.J. knew a little Spanish. His mouth dropped open a little. "You three… in bed?"

Téa smiled thoughtfully, dreamily. R.J. was very old fashioned. "Yes," she said quietly. "Todd was… incredible… _we_...were incredible…such profound understanding happened _en la cama_ , such honesty, such plain… love—"

She had to stop. For a few minutes, in explaining who they were, where they'd been, in seeing Havana nights once again, she'd forgotten he'd died.

 _Oh god. Oh… god!_

"We convinced him to abandon his plans! He was coming home, he was leaving Havana!"

 _Téa Delgado-Manning, I am going home to you and our children. I fucking promise you that._

The tears came again, hard and hot, and she heard his voice clear and strong, like he was here, no more ghostly silence, oh no, he was right in front of her just like that night in Sylvia's house, raw and luminous in the shadows of the room, admitting he loved Rico but that he loved her still, _doesn't mean I don't love YOU, Delgado. God, I do. More than anything, more than everything._ He told her that he _felt_ loved by her, that she was always enough, that he felt her love since way back in Fayetteville, that he wanted her and the kids and their home and that he just didn't know where Rico would fit…

Purely himself. Full of hate, full of love, open to all the complexities of human existence and equally frustrated at them.

 _How could you do that then? How could you leave us to blow yourself up to pieces, to nothing but ashes? How could you,_ _how could you?_!

She covered her eyes. Then paced and breathed and R.J. could see how she slowly grew angry again, hate sliding in where sorrow has been. When she got to herself, she sat on the couch. She sat forward with her legs apart, elbows on her knees. Her features were hard, her expression serious, what she might look like if a judge ruled against her.

"Baby girl, are you… uh… getting—"

"Therapy?" She chuckled. "Yes, along with Lucía. Even Reese goes to one. Starr and Jed have had sessions too."

"Not helping?"

"It helps _them_. I, on the other hand, know it all, all the analyses, the psychological DNA of my grief. The only thing I need is time…and reclaiming control over my life. I lost control. I have to get it back. I feel like in time… I will. Get it back. Reclamation."

They were quiet a while. Téa moved back into the sofa, curling against the leather cushions and the arm. She'd pulled her feet up, folding her legs beneath her. There was something catlike in her pose.

R.J. said softly, "I know how hurt you are that Manning did what he did. I kinda agree with Jed though."

Sharp eyes fell on his.

"I think it's possible… he did that, followed through on the bombing, because… he thought you died." He saw she bit down on her teeth. She heard it before.

He marched on.

"The way Jed described that whole night, Manning never saw you recover, never saw that Espy came through. Nobody saw him again. No calls, no nothin'."

She started to object, but he put his hand up.

"Listen, just listen. My mama told me a story long time ago when I got to cryin' about my granddad who up and died after my grandma did. Weeks after. She said men and women were real different when it came to living' and not livin'. When mothers gotta choose between kids and the husband, moms will choose the kids. When men gotta choose, they choose the wife. Just the way of life, she said, nature, evolution. It's why old men die after their wives die, even when they got kids to take care of, grandkids. But women? They stick around long after they's been made into widows. Manning lost you… he lost everything. I kinda believe that. Jed has some insight there and, you know, I don't ever defend Manning. I think all options for him got lost… with you."

She shook her head. She'd heard some story like that from her grandmother. She didn't want to hear it. No excuse, no excuse… she turned away and stared out the windows again.

The office had grown cold and she pulled the edges of her summer suit jacket tight. She didn't want to think about him. She just couldn't. She shut the grief box. Shut it tight. Felt the lingering sorrowful tide move out the rest of the way, the hateful fog move all the way back in.

 _No excuse. Fuck you, you fucking bastard._

When it was clear she wasn't going to talk about anything to do with Todd anymore, R.J. decided to get a move-on with his needed questions.

"I lost one of my men," R.J. said. "He was jus' a kid. 22. Ziggy."

Téa shook her head, turning and picking up a sandal off the floor. She was picking at it, cleaning something off it now. "How?"

"Killed in a shootout."

"I didn't hear about that."

"No?"

"No. Why would I?"

R.J. considered his words, his strategy. He didn't really have one because while he'd come here, meaning to get answers to straight questions, he hadn't expected the tears. She was better now. Back to what Jed called, _her ice-queen state_ , a play on _ice cream_ for the sake of the kids apparently _._

 _I had to tell Rose that I said_ ice cream _because she's like the moral police in our house, always correcting me!_

"Buchanan thinks it's… Mexican cartel."

He searched her face for some reaction. She just shook her head again.

He added, "He thinks Cubans is responsible… _Los Muertos."_

She kept a goddamn good poker face. She sniffed, dropped the one sandal back on the floor and now picked up the other sandal.

R.J. chewed his lip. Stayed quiet. Then in a soft voice, he said, "You know about _Los Muertos_. Stop playing me. I ain't MK, I ain't Posse. I am your friend."

"I don't—"

"Nah...no bullshit. You shared you and your husband with me tonight. The part of him I don't know, the part that lives in your heart, that has kept you at his side long past his expiration date. I only knew him as an asshole. Least you can do… is _stay_ honest. For him."

She sighed and dropped the sandal back on the floor, next to its mate. Dark eyes on his. "Have you seen Moreno lately?"

"Ain't my man to see."

"He's very unhappy. A balloon without air. Lying on the side of the road."

"Because you have his men."

"Yes. I wanted to bleed him, R.J. And I _did_. I created Method Makers for the sole purpose of taking MK away from Pedro."

"'Cause you blame him for Manning blowin' hisself up."

"Absolutely!"

"Woman, you ever think _Todd_ brought that shit on all by his own damn self?" Téa started to get that pained sorrowful look and R.J. talked more, hoping to derail her with facts. "Hear me out, baby. Go way back. I know about the abuse from his father. It turned him-I get that. History happened...and he ended up back in Statesville. And there, he decided, nobody making him do it, to be some kinda savior. Well, lo and be-hold… he needed help. Enter Mambo Kings. It's dominos. I put the drop on that moment in prison… when he took on shit he didn't have to."

"They abused him."

"'Course they did. He invited vampires into his goddamn house! Gave up his throat to them."

She closed her eyes briefly, taking a moment. It was very hard to do post-mortems on Todd when he could no longer defend himself, to offer different takes on his own life. It made her sick. She then said, "He was forced into MK. Rolon told me."

"Yeah, but he made himself needed. And he really got going as a _needed_ person in Statesville once he took on those kids."

"How do you know? You weren't there."

"Woman, please."

"Whatever. Prison Posse, fine. Doesn't change anything at this point. Pedro protected Manuel Caro who raped Todd, protected that trafficking operation, _child_ trafficking. He helped build it. He deserves to be bled."

R.J. had heard this all from Jed. He nodded. Knew the ugly story, knew the story from the news, too. Ringleaders were killed in the Havana blast. Caro was also a ringleader but listed as missing. R.J. knew about the connection with Rico Macias. Again, ugly story.

"I ain't defending Moreno, that piece o' shit. Should be in prison… but…" He paused, thinking of how direct he wanted to be. Decided he needed to say what he thought. "Look, you are wanting to end him, get payback, and I understand that. And maybe Moreno was a big motivation for the bombing… but…"

"What?"

"Moreno is part of a system...like...an ecosystem where there is predators and prey and they operate together to make a whole. They operate best in a very particular balance. And if one eat up too much of a kinda prey or one predator disappear leaving other predators taking over… well… that system gonna get screwy."

Téa got to her feet and walked to the window. Looked down into the boulevard. Her suite was on the third floor of a six floor building built in the 1920s. One of a few in this section of Llanview. She could see the decorative moldings, the sculpted white terra cotta, little monsters sticking out tongues.

"What you're saying is that Moreno should be left alone to thrive, flourish?"

"What I'm saying is...you upset the balance… by draining MK. Moreno ain't so much needed as his soldiers in place are. He a general without an army, a king without subjects. He'll go under without people. But so will the ecosystem."

She knew this could be true, the upset she might have caused. She thought _Los Muertos_ could move in but in the end, thought it was a risk worth taking. Thought it was low-risk. She knew MK had dwindled and lost footing in gambling, drugs, weapons, and whatever other garbage they were involved in. However…

"Pedro wanted legitimacy for himself," she argued, "for his soldiers. I made it happen. It was Todd's goal… to legitimize MK. This upset was inevitable."

"Not in a single cold blast. Legitimacy was a long term goal. Coulda moved more reliable organizations in place, slowly, as they were doing. Your man… he shifted a lot of that illegal shit to Posse, the reservations, others. Without the dramatic change to the system."

She turned, facing him. "Are _Los Muertos_ really here?"

"Only time will tell."

She went to her desk and pulled out the ledger Leya Moreno had stolen from her father. She brought it to R.J., dropped it on his lap. She crossed her arms and stood, looking thoughtful. He eyed her then started flipping pages.

"Lookie here," he drawled.

"I know where everything is with MK… or was. I figured things were going according to Pedro's layout of the territories. MK lost control over activities but who took their place was appropriate, balanced."

"I see it - he's saying the north is Posse and their usual allies, East is the Irish and their allies, south is the Latin and Italians, west is Asian… some res… he ain't that off."

"I did worry about _Muertos_ but thought maybe...the others were taking up the slack. I did calculations. I thought it would be okay."

"Your plan was dependent on the strength of allies. Without proper leadership, they fall to a stronger force."

Téa sighed. " _Los Muertos."_

R.J. huffed angrily like a bull, and closed the book. "Yeah. We need verification though before we lose our heads. Maybe Ziggy was a one-off. My suggestion?"

"Tell me."

"Get active MK soldiers to report to you on what's happening. They will report… through your workers that you already got under you. I'm talking to Posse captains tonight. I can get a fix on some of that… but you need more information than Posse alone." He sat back. "You also need better security."

"What's wrong-"

"I strolled right on in here. Nobody stop me. You feel safe in the building but…you got nobody around you."

"They know you. If it was a stranger—"

"You should lease this whole floor so you can monitor who come and go. Get someone here in your suite, right here. You should never be alone. At least, have someone right outside the door."

"I just-"

"No… with your name getting out there, among soldiers… with you doing that drain… that might make you a target. Not just a possible one, a serious one."

"I have protection."

"Not enough."

She groaned softly. Jedediah already thought it was overkill, the five shifting guards at the house, and Tony Valencia as her more personal guard. He sat at the elevator; he hovered when she was out. Rolon hovered, too, as her driver. He mostly stayed in an office next door, helping Gloria with operations, overseeing all the facilities under the Method Makers umbrella. So he was sometimes occupied.

"I'll talk to Rolon," she said. "See about getting others…"

"Lemme take you home."

She didn't object, getting her sandals on. Grabbed her purse. They walked out of the office. Rolon popped his head out of his office. He had an eye on Téa always and so knew whenever she left the office when he was on duty with her. Tony stood at the elevator, pressing the call button. Téa grabbed R.J.'s arm, holding him affectionately, and they all headed down. The men talked, R.J. saying he was driving her, Rolon saying he'd follow them. Tony was going to head home then.

Téa knew she'd been careless in her plan to eviscerate Pedro. Understood that. She worried she might have had a hand in the death of that young man who worked for R.J., Ziggy. _Just a kid._ She'd have to be smarter from now on. More precise in her pursuit.

She then looked at her phone. Jedediah had called after all, a Cuban international code among the missed calls. He left a message and she clicked on it, listening as they walked to R.J.'s car.

 _Hey moms, I'm here. It's the same as before. Muggy and like no time has passed. I feel him here, I gotta say. Hurts like hell. He's in the rain. He's in the smell of the ocean. In the bars. Sucks. Don't worry. I'm not doing anything dangerous. Give the kids a kiss from me. Hope you're home. My hotel address is in my room. Um… it's not the same as where you or I stayed. I'm not_ that _much of a masochist. Love you. Talk tomorrow. Hope you're not still mad at me._

That boy, she thought, something else. His heart was huge, along with his capacity for forgiveness, understanding, compassion. Better than her. She shut the car door, tucked inside his silver Audi, and looked at R.J. Another good person. Better than her. The car moved and they were flying.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" His voice was gentle and still had a bit of sadness in it.

"For being there today, for helping me. For being my friend."

"Anytime," he said, smiling sadly, lights passing them through the car's windows. He squeezed her hand, a familiar warmth. "You know that."

"My head _is_ clearer," she said. "Guess I needed a good cry. As they say."

"Good. You gonna need to be real clear in the months ahead."

"Yeah."

She lifted her cell phone and texted Rolon.

 _First, what the hell is Jed doing in Havana? Second, are Los Muertos here? Do you think they killed that Posse boy? If they're here, we have a problem._

It didn't take long. He answered even though he was driving right behind her. Texting and driving.

 _Got nothing on Jed_

A minute later.

 _Mamita_

 _We got a problem_

* * *

Todd remembered being in similar immovable states before, lying in a bed, on a floor, on a couch, high or depressed or just checked out. It was a strangely comfortable place like mud to a pig, trash to a rat. He could not see the point of anything beyond the tower room, no matter how hard he thought about it.

He tried to check out today, earlier, tried to bring on the white blankness he remembered from before but it wasn't the kind of thing that could happen on command. A joke by God. Since he couldn't get high, he jumped into the depression boat. He slept, sorta, and then just lay in bed, thinking maybe he could just stop breathing. But that never seemed to happen either. Another joke by God.

From the bed, he considered getting to the bathroom. A shower would be good and he needed to piss. He still wore his day clothes. He was lying on top of the bedsheets. But walking required help and he declined. He _did_ see someone in the cot who would help. He always had someone in the room with him. Fucking hated that.

Made him feel less than a man. Not that it mattered. He was simply going to die in this room. Eventually.

There was… no… point.

The despondency brought pictures though. Mainly of a friend. He could see kind blue eyes, curly sandy hair, that husky chest and thick shoulders, endless patience at the crazy, and his heart ached for home at that memory. If he were there, home, he would hide out with that friend, his doctor… with… with…

Names still evaded him. He rubbed his lips, his mouth.

"Fuck," he growled.

" _You are awake. I am too."_

"Go away."

It was Raquel who had been lying on the cot, waiting for him to show some life again. He supposed she was better than Maria or Theresa. At least he knew her. He was grateful Beatrice only assigned sisters who could totally carry his weight which meant no young, fragile women. He could not deal if that were the case. All this was humiliating enough.

It was near midnight. The tabby cat, Daisy, and Abram, his loving devoted pit bull terrier, all sixty pounds of him, lay on his bed with him. Todd could hardly move which was perfectly okay with him.

" _Tonight is my night,"_ Raquel said _. "You still need assistance."_

" _I need...nothing."_

" _You need sustenance."_

" _For...what?"_

" _To go home."_

"" _Nothing...there."_

Raquel got up. She sat at the foot of the bed. He adjusted his gaze, landing on her. _"What do you know of home? Tell me."_

He didn't want to. "Why?"

" _Medical reasons. I have been easy on you. No longer. I want to know how serious your amnesia is."_

" _I do not have…"_ He paused. The word disappearing even though she just said it. It came. "... _Amnesia."_

" _What is your name then?"_

"Okay. Selective… amnesia. Maybe."

" _Do you remember your childhood?"_

" _Yes,"_ he said softly. "Everything. All of it. Even more than I knew… _before_."

" _More_?"

" _I had blank… g-gaps. Not anymore. I remember all the things… my entire… history."_ He turned onto his back, eyes on the songbird. The cat leapt off at that and Abram rolled over. _"I see faces. Places. Events. But…like in a dream. Nothing… feels...up close anymore."_

" _What about the man from today?"_

Todd could see him crystal clear, the silver hair. His body tensed. He grunted and tightened his fists. "Not so… dreamy."

"Why?"

" _I do not know."_

" _What did he do to you?"_

" _Many things. Connected… to the…"_ He was breathing thickly. " _He killed her."_

" _Who?"_

They had this conversation before. He didn't want to see any more of the silver-haired man or _her_ or any of it.

" _What do you know of your crime? The one that put you in a coma?"_

He quirked at her inquiry. Admittedly, he had less of a grasp on this. The crime. He knew Raquel had promised to kill him if innocents died but… he wasn't very sure of that day to be truthful. Something terrible had happened. And he had done it.

" _Angel_?"

" _Not… my… name."_

He could see the hospital, could see… _him…_ the doctor shaking his head and everyone there growing upset. _She..._ had died and it was a sure thing. Then he was walking Havana streets, walking all night, hours, and then… he was in that house, that terrible house, and he was stalking the hallways and rooms and searching, checking… and….

" _There was a baby,"_ he said, " _… she was crying… in the… down the stairs…"_

Raquel had reached for him and she held his hand and he was squeezing hard. He was shaking. What baby, she wondered?

He looked at her, focused… _"I had to save her from the…"_ What was the word he wanted. He thought and thought and then there it was. " _Monsters in the house. Thirteen… monsters."_

He gasped. He remembered. Oh _fuck._ He looked away now.

" _I went down the stairs before… when…"_

It was peaceful, really. He had closed his eyes, held the baby, his baby, his child, and everything went black. Raquel had tears in her eyes and he looked at her hand in his. He had to do what he did. Had to kill the monsters but the baby shouldn't have been there. He had to save her. Innocents could not die. He had promised that one thing. He looked at Raquel once again.

"I went downstairs… before… bombs went off. I wanted... thirteen monsters... to die. Did they?"

Mother Superior Beatrice spoke from the door. She had been in the chapel across the hall and had heard her sister, heard the needed conversation.

"Yes," she said as she moved towards him. "Thirteen child traffickers, child pornographers, distributors of child pornaphy, from Canada, Europe, America, and Cuba… died in the blast, a bombing that you most likely orchestrated according to the Havana Chief of Police."

She joined her sister at the foot of the bed. "Do you remember arranging for that?"

"A conversation… yes. Some."

"Do you know why you did that."

"I had to. Police were not good enough."

"Did you know you were found in the basement of the house?

"I had to save my child..,"

"There was no child."

He was confused. He could so clearly hear those cries, could feel her in his arms.

Beatrice turned to the songbird who began singing her usual night music. "Did you mean to die in that bombing?"

"Yes. But I had to save—"

"Yourself. There was no baby, _Angel_. At the last minute, you ran to save _yourself_. Do you know why?"

"No, no, no… that makes no... sense…I had to save-"

"Yourself. Because you did not deserve to die in that house with those evil people, because I believe you heard a call from God. You heeded that call. I, in turn, heeded His call too, to make sure you survived your injuries. So here we are."

He could not turn away from Beatrice. He remembered the child. She was clear in his head and beautiful and… _talking._ Impossible. She had spoken to him and she was offering...

 _Hope._

"Look at me, _Angel_. Listen carefully. You have a purpose for being here. I do not know what it might be. But I know you have a home you need to return to. You have—"

" _Esperanza."_ He was breathing fast, an immovable gaze on Beatrice's. _Her name_. It had come from nowhere, from everywhere. The name of his beautiful girl who hadn't gotten a chance to see the light of day, the sun...

"Yes, _Esperanza_ needs you."

"That's my daughter's name… she's dead, along with…"

"Who?"

"I can't… I can't…"

"You have to. You need to go home to them."

And all of a sudden, with no warning, like thunder, her name came barreling out of the sky down to him, too, crashing through him, tearing right through him.

" _Téa,"_ he cried, "she's gone…"

" _Angel…_ look at me."

He did, childlike, a hold on her because seconds more and he was going to be sunk into the deepest sorrow again, the kind that drove him into the mud, sobs were at his throat, his chest, his heart breaking all over again.

"Téa is alive and at home with your children. She did not die in hospital in Havana. God knew this and put Esperanza where she needed to be to save your life."

"You are… confused," he rasped.

In her limited English, English she did know, Raquel repeated Beatrice's pronouncement, "Téa went home with your child. They both... live."

"I saw her… die! I felt her…die… in my arms!" The fury morphed fast though because he didn't have the physical strength to express that much hate, and he began to cry, hard breaths, "She went right... through me!"

Raquel moved in and wrapped her arms around him, "The doctor made a mistake." In Spanish, she then said, _"Téa survived! She lived! She had your daughter early and she survived, too. They are home, chiquito, with your other children. Your family now grieves YOU."_

He looked all over the room, madness flooding him. _This is madness!_ The night crashed into him, the basement, _him_ across the darkness, eating the heart, blood everywhere. The way _he_ then washed himself, carefully, his lithe body bending and shifting to remove the blood off his skin, another kind of dance, and _she_ was looking up into his own light eyes with such love, and he was holding her to not let her see… _Look at me, just at me. Only me._ And she did, and then something was wrong. Wetness. Blood. And then he was running, up the stairs, past the boats and warehouses and falling into a taxi…

She'd touched him with just a look and loved him one more time with just a look and then she took a last breath and then she was gone. He felt it! He felt her leave!

"I know the truth," he groaned, his head in his hands. He did know, he felt her go, saw her fly into the forever night sky. "Oh god, she's gone, you're tricking me, that's what you're doing… Raquel…"

" _No, no, no, the doctor made a mistake. I went into the room because I have seen this before and the sheet covered her but I heard sounds and I moved the sheet and she was breathing, pushing, the baby was coming. The nurse declared both dead but they were not! She had been at death's door, that sheet was still and unmoving and then it was not. Your daughter brought your wife back. She was not going to die…"_ Raquel laughed, " _Your daughter must have been so very angry and she must have decided… what do you in America say back in the war…_ Hell no, I won't go!"

He stared dumbly at Raquel and pushed her away. She sat at the end of the bed again. He was trying to process her words, and he could see her desperation for him to understand. Her Spanish had been quick and rolling and he had a hard time untangling long narratives. She was tearful with her fight. She said again, shorter, _mistake, alive, both alive, nurse, doctor, angry,_ more, again.

Beatrice in her usual calm, said again, "They both live, _Angel,_ it is true. _"_

 _Téa… Téa…. Delgado, Lucia, Reese, Starr, Jedediah_ … the rest of the names, all the names, the squirrels racing down leaf-heavy trees, racing towards him, tails in the air. They came forth at a hundred miles an hour, all of them bunching together, packing in, becoming more like a boulder, rolling, rolling over him, catching him, flattening him.

"Oh god," he huffed, hunching over, the air sucked out of him. He could see each one of them, their faces, their smiles, he could feel their kisses.

 _Téa...Lucía… Reese… Starr, Jedediah_ … and even the littlest one who he never met, never saw… _Esperanza_.

"I don't understand… I felt her die!"

" _But she did not die,"_ Raquel said in a desperate voice, _"She came back for Esperanza, for you."_

He was holding on to Raquel's wrist, his arm stretched to her, hers to him…his eyes on hers, hardly able to breathe for the truth rolling over him, crashing, crashing into him.

 _Téa… Téa…_

 _...and himself._

"I know my name," he said. "It's… Thomas… Todd… Manning. I hate it. But I hate _Angel_ more."

Raquel chuckled, a certain nervousness in it. "Yes! Me too! _It is really not you!"_

A strange calm fell over Todd. He lay back on the pillows behind him. Téa survived. Esperanza survived. The relief was too large to hold, too great to take any kind of shape at all. He breathed deeply and light eyes full of darkness searched the shadows and the black of the night sky beyond the windows. Long minutes passed. Something inside of him knew this was absolutely… _true._

These sisters before him would not lie, they would not trick him. He sat up again, not even needing the rail to do so. He once again reached for and grabbed Raquel's wrist in his hand, pulling her towards him.

And in that hold of Raquel, _la doctora,_ the one who helped so many, who cared for _Rico Macias…_ his _Rico_ , Téa's _Rico_ , he began to enter a state of full comprehension…

...of a new reality.

And in _that_ , a small fire began to form in the center of him, deep in his core. Real heat blossomed, flames gaining from a whole life that passed him by, flames fueled by dreamy details, ugly, violent, bloody, truths that made for the greatest _hate_ he had ever felt. Enough to kill. Enough to take on a crown…

… in hell.

The bombing.

He raised his eyes above and felt rain on his cheeks, rain desperately battling the growing fire below, a forever fight, such love, soul-soothing love, great suffocating love that lived in that rain… rain that wasn't enough to put out the fire, not now, not from here.

Across the bed, he landed an icy gaze on Beatrice. All the names had rolled in. All of them. In a low growl, he then asked…

"Well, if they're alive, then what the _fuck…_ am I doing… here… and why is… _Pedro…Moreno_ … stalking the convent's forest?"

Raquel closed her eyes and tried to pull away from the increasingly strong grip on her. To no avail. Beatrice got to her feet. Abram jumped off the bed.

Then in seconds, strong hands dragged Raquel by her arms, yanking her up close, and she found herself looking at raging, hazel-colored eyes that she knew very, very well.

"Welcome back," she huffed. " _Blanco_."

"You better answer me," he spat, "… or I swear to _fucking_ God... I will throw you… right out that... goddamn... WINDOW!"

 **To be continued...**


	9. Chapter 9

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 9**

Beatrice talked _Blanco_ off the proverbial ledge. She coolly walked up to the raging man who was definitely more devil-like and less angel-like and described an incontrovertible truth. She said, "Release Raquel or _I_ will throw _you_ out the window. And _I,_ unlike _you_ , have the physical strength to do it."

Wild light eyes roved the edges of the bed, the bathroom, the wheelchair, the railing at his side, his socked feet. The socks had been patched, blue patches on the heels. He then landed on the unflustered gaze of Raquel, seeing a knowingness he almost hated.

" _Blanco,"_ she urged, softening really. Not the reaction he was going for. He then noticed she had drawn her knee up, that her hands were on the mattress on both sides of him. She was supporting herself as she stretched down the bed while in Todd's hard grip.

 _Jesus CHRIST_ , he cursed. She was protecting his body from her own-she did not want to hurt _him_.

He dug in his fingers, scraping skin beneath her shirt, and hissed, "I'm… not… finished with you. Get the fuck away from me." At that, he shoved her away as if it had been her idea to be all up in his face.

"We will answer your questions," Beatrice assured him.

He slammed back on the pillows and glowered at the two women, snorting like a downed bull. Beatrice was right. He hardly had the strength to get off the bed, much less toss any woman from any window. He needed help in getting… everywhere. He had to sit on a stool to shower. He sat to pee. His threat… wasn't even yelled. It was a scratchy, breathy, rasp.

 _Fucking… patched._

Hunching down even further, he huffed and closed his eyes. The names that had been lost to him flooded his mind now, faces and voices and hundreds of interactions flipping noisily like film strips in a projector. He wished they'd stop but they were out of his control. He remembered the white space of complete absence but he couldn't get there willingly. He never could.

That's what heroin was for.

So he settled for shoving himself into an imagined corner of a far-away room, virtual walls insulating him from the real world, from his history, from everything. All he wanted, needed, was to be where Téa was, where she had not died. _His new reality._ She was home and taking care of Esperanza, carrying her and rocking her and smiling and laughing at Lucia and Reese and Starr and Jed, home where they were all together, sharing their lives. Thriving. She was fully herself as she was always meant to be. He needed this to be true. He believed it was.

 _Thank… the gods… thank the fucking GODS._

The relief was so encompassing he couldn't even react in as truthful a way as he felt. He wanted to be on the floor, prostrate like Muslim men he'd seen on television, or like the nuns or priests when they took vows, forehead on the ground, arms out, as prayerful to that higher power as he had ever been in his entire life.

 _Téa is alive and at home with your children. She did not die in hospital in Havana. God knew this and put Esperanza where she needed to be to save your life._

He heard Beatrice and Raquel say his name, the new one first, _Angel,_ then _Blanco,_ and finally, _Todd_. One of the sisters caressed his cheek, butterfly-light with folded fingers, a kindness he did not deserve so he made a low rolling sound from deep in his throat, a near-voiceless animal noise, and the touch went away. Had they gotten closer to his mouth he would have bitten them. He could _feel_ the pounds of weight in the tightening of his jaw.

"Okay, we will wait. Speak when ready. We are not leaving."

 _Beatrice_.

When he dug deeper into his memories from within his chosen black, from behind closed eyelids, he saw his Delgado's face swimming and shifting. He was more willing to look at her now, to remember her.

 _Because she was alive, thank god, thank god… oh my god, yes, yes, yes…_

Brown eyes full of sparking electric love, fight, resistance, stared right back at him, matching brown hair he loved to run his fingers through or grab when they made love, her mouth, lips, rose-colored and smart, lips that demanded kisses from him since the moment he met her, a demand he rejected so hard at first, not because he rejected _her_ but because he simply could not engage that way. An engagement he fully took on later, after so much shit...after his insides exploded in drugged up madness for what felt like years…

 _Holy fuck she's alive, his beautiful Delgado. Still, always, forever. She was never supposed to go first._

He watched her lift the corners of her mouth when she knew she was right, or tighten those lips when she was angry. He thought of her legs, the strength in them, the way she moved them as she stormed down a courthouse hallway, her walk. So many visions of her poured forth at his gentle prodding, like a waterfall. He tightened his fists wishing for _her_ hands on him, hands so ready to touch him. To hold him. To keep him. To push him away. To slap him. To press his cheeks when she needed him to hear her. He could see the spread of her fingers on the back of Reese's head when he was a newborn, his body supported by her forearm, such a strong hold of him, a mother's grasp that took his breath away…

On and on the pictures went, the sounds, the scents… everything.

 _Thank...GOD._

But with the relief, with this… _reality…_ that other piece popped up again, the infuriating thing: he was here, incapacitated. A king hidden in a tower. While a monster roamed the grounds.

 _Why? How?_

And in a much darker, quieter voice…

 _Where did his family think_ he _was?_

Reluctantly, he pulled away from Téa in the dark. Opened his eyes to Raquel sitting next to him, on the side of the bed with no railing. The light of the room was low and shadows hid the farthest reaches of the room.

" _You are...certain... she lives?_ " he asked quietly, in Spanish. Based on Raquel's expression, she had set aside her compassion. Her features were hard-etched. She was looking at the bastard from Havana, the man she'd been fighting with in those last days who she believed had been hurting _Rico_. He was comfortable as that man. He would get honesty from her in this skin even as incapacitated as he was.

" _Yes_ ," she said, " _I was there. I saw her leave the hospital with my own eyes."_

" _Tell me again… how."_

Raquel adjusted herself to sit more securely on the bed which got her closer to him. In Spanish, speaking in shorter sentences so that he did not have much to untangle, she told the story once more.

" _It was a common mistake. Téa lost a lot of blood. Esperanza had turned, inside, in a way that her heartbeat could not be detected. Téa's pulse was so low that it also could not be detected, her breathing had reduced to almost nothing."_

She paused. Todd was looking at her, his expression unreadable, no longer raging in quite the same way. It was a familiar gaze that reflected millions of unsaid thoughts, a quiet consideration. And this was good. He was listening.

" _I entered the room to see for myself because I have witnessed such errors before. And as I suspected, the doctor, the nurses, were wrong. I saw the sheet over her, rising and falling. She was beginning labor."_

Todd glanced out the window at the night sky, mist drifting into the room. He tried to guess what was happening with him when Raquel entered Téa's hospital room. He must have run into the darkness of Havana by then. He must have torn out Rico's heart with the blaming and run by then. If he had stayed… for Jed, if he had held on to Rico… if he had thought about Lucía or Reese at home...

 _If, if, if…_

The air felt heavy. His home felt ages away, centuries away. The tower room looked as ancient as it probably was. Modern conveniences were just that… modern, built later. There were stairs to learn to navigate. He ran a hand through his short hair…

 _Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair..._

Raquel carefully lifted his hand and held it in hers. He allowed it and looked at their joined hands. He felt heat there, a thin veil of sweat between them. This was her compassionate side, a mother caressing his fingers delicately, the most tender of touches. Then, with a voice strong and sure, being the bitch who could go toe to toe with a monster, she asked, _"Is there anything you want to know?"_

He was two people too: the broken child who needed love, who needed her hand on his, and the Mad King who needed obedience.

" _I saw…"_ He licked his lips, swallowing visibly. A slow blink of his eyes. Developing tics to allow time for the words to get found. " _Why is...Pedro...here?"_

" _He is worried about you. He has been waiting for you to wake up."_

" _He is the…."_ The word vanished. He closed his eyes and waited, searched. He spat it out once he found it. "He is the real _devil,_ Raquel _._ You know that. _"_

"We are all devils in some way, _"_ the older sister said, pulling the attention of the other two. He eyed Beatrice who was sitting on a chair, hunched over slightly to pet Abram on the floor next to her. They were both watching Todd intently. Evaluating. He could tell.

" _She_ _knows what he did,"_ he said. _"With...Caro."_ He rasped the name that had come to him, as close to a growl as he could get.

"He helped build Caro's trafficking business. I know. Raquel has explained it."

"Then… why is he here? How can you let him on the… _property_?"

Beatrice stood now and approached Todd. "Pedro is in a state of remorse. I believe him. I believe he brought you here out of… love."

"Oh _Jesus FUCKING… Christ!_ Have you lost your... mind?! He does not LOVE!"

Raquel sat back at the explosion of upset, releasing his hand.

"Only God can judge him. I only know what he tells me, and what he tells himself. He believes what he says. He is earnest."

"I want to-"

"Focus on facts, Mr. Manning."

A new name. _Mr. Manning_. It gave him an unexpected shiver down his spine. He thought of his father at that. Memories he didn't like pecked at him in a way he knew was his usual way of life. Years of getting pecked by them. A pain inside wrenched upwards, right up through the center of him. Sharp and insistent.

 _Don't forget about meeeee…_

"Like what?" He groaned the words in his current raspy voice, mustering all the hate he could show in his current state, shifting on the bed to alleviate the actual physical pain coursing through him.

"If Señor Moreno left you at the bombing site, the officer who found you would have let you die from your injuries. Your pulse was very low when I met your plane. The only reason you even had one was because you received emergency treatment before the flight."

She paused to allow him to consider her words. When he seemed interested in hearing more, a mere flicker of hazel eyes towards her, she continued.

"The other possibility is you would have been taken to hospital where you would have been treated. You would then have been arrested the moment you awakened and transported to a Cuban prison where most likely… you would have been killed."

He clearly understood what might have happened. His expression changed to one of… disappointment? It was hard to tell.

"Señor Moreno," she concluded with a sigh, "did not want you to die. That is why you are here. That is an inarguable fact. It does not matter if you believe him to be evil or good or something in between. He saved your life. Pedro Moreno saved you."

Todd shook his head and dug into the sheets, turning to his side, towards the railing so he could not look at Beatrice OR Raquel. That had been a lot of fuckin' words. Basically, he would have died at the site… or later. Pedro stopped that. _Saved him._ The bird had begun to sing her usual nighttime song. The loneliest sound. He couldn't breathe at the delusion that Pedro saved him out of _love._ Not possible. He grunted quietly, shaking now with that consuming life-stealing hate that lived inside of him always. Pedro was his captor. The convent sisters were his unwitting goons.

And suddenly that other question again popped up. What did Téa know of _him_? Where did the family think he was?

"Does she… know…I'm here?"

Raquel's face gave him the answer. She sighed heavily and reached for his hand but he jerked it back. He knew. Of course he knew. They thought he died in the bombing.

They think...he is dead.

He groaned, sickened, a whole new sorrow blossoming. _Oh god._ Of course. History was doomed to repeat itself. This was Ireland all over again. Blair all over again. Starr was Esperanza. They all thought he was dead.

 _Oh God!_

A joke, yeah? He'd go home and find his family taken by… by whom? R.J.? Rolon? Rico? Pedro maybe. He laughed. A hysterical, breathless, mad-as-fuck laugh. He could hardly breathe with this other thing… this… _reality._

 _Six months?_

He'd be a plaque on the Lord Crypt by now, a trust distributed, the family halfway through the first year of grieving. His precious Lucia would think the war finally DID take him, Reese would have already started making up stories about the mythical father he couldn't remember… couldn't go through the rest of the list, the imaginings… the clash with his years-long desire to be dead. This was what he wanted, yeah? King of Hell and all that?

Well… why then did it make him so so sick? Sick enough to vomit all over the sheets. Why? Because he was supposed to actually be DEAD. And he was very much alive. A fucking captive.

He finally spat, "Get… ...OUT! Get the fuck out of my… ROOM!"

The women could not dissuade him or console him, so for now they left him alone. Beatrice went to her room in the residence quarters and Raquel brought up blankets and a pillow so she could rest in the chapel across the hall. He needed help and she was the only one fully prepared for _Blanco_. She left his door open.

She fingered the blade at her side once again as she burrowed into the linens on the chapel's pew.

Hours later, he tried to get out of bed, the damn bathroom calling, demanding attention. He sat up and swung his legs to the side of the bed. Feet hit the floor. The wheelchair was a couple of feet away. He just needed to get to the chair and he could use it as support. Abram had been on the bed and was now on the floor, waiting. Todd pushed off, standing. He dragged a foot forward.

 _Okay, okay, not so bad, just takes visualization, gumption—_

He fell like a sack of potatoes, chin hitting the ground, splitting open. Blood spread beneath him. All the rage and hate and mortification that he was here, trapped, dead, _safe_ , did him no good. He sobbed like a child once more, laid out like roadkill again, his dog pressed up to him.

Raquel heard the efforts, heard the inevitable fall, because she hadn't been sleeping. She hustled into the room and got down on her knees and held him. " _Enough, Blanco… enough chiquito. You have purpose now. Come, come… child."_

She said more words like a mother, assuring him that he would be okay, not caring about the blood that was getting on her. She said he would get back to himself in no time at all, that Téa waited for him. That they would be as relieved as he was when they learned the truth. He crawled into her, grabbing her body like the wretch he was, his face buried in the curves of her chest, arms around her neck, her strength undeniable. Like she was a life line. Which she was.

When he stopped the gasping sobs, when the tears got back under control, he looked at her, still within her unfailing hold of him. He faced a whole other reality. It had come to him the moment he'd hit the ground.

"Maybe… it is better… I stay here? Stay dead. There is no…" The word escaped him. But then it peeked out from behind a tree's leaves in a mix of Spanish and English. "There is no _forgiving_ what I did. _Prison waits for me. And Téa is not waiting at all. She is trying to …._ get over… me? _What is the point then?_ Maybe I am meant... never to see my family again. _Maybe I am meant to… die… here... in Cuba."_

Overpowering sorrow swelled once more, the sobbing threatening to paralyze him, to tear him to pieces, and on this very point…

" _This is why you must see Pedro Moreno. You must get information before you commit yourself to living among these fanatics the rest of your life."_

Raquel used the edge of her robe to wipe the blood from his cut chin.

He heard her as she dabbed. It sounded like a joke, like the sarcastic judgment of her and her sister… but she wasn't being funny.

" _Information_ ," he whispered, a familiar term, a heavy one.

 _I'm just the information guy._

He wriggled himself to a sitting position, inches away from her. The bloodied pink robe appeared blackened in the dark. He studied _la doctora,_ silver coiled hair freed from braids, reaching passed her shoulders. He took in her womanly shapely form in that soft robe she wore over clothes relaxed enough to sleep in but not so much she couldn't run down the stairs if needed. As gentle as a lamb she appeared with a sweet face, skin softened with age, touchable like a statue in a museum. Beautiful really.

Until one caught the black-handled silver blade gleaming on a leather belt that cinched the robe at her waist. Until one caught her eyes… glistening like hard black diamonds.

" _Yes,"_ she said. " _Information. You have much work to do. Stop being a fallen, wounded angel. Be the devil you_ are _. Meet with Pedro. Then you decide what God_ possibly _intends for you."_

There was no arguing to be done.

* * *

Summer brought warm rain to Havana, stormy clouds drifting across the Cuban morning sky. Jedediah had arrived the afternoon previous, got situated in his hotel, made the requisite calls to Rose and Téa, and was finally getting together with Ian Correa for an early lunch. They had already met in the lobby of Jed's hotel, felt comfortable already, friendly since they first got introduced in Llanview.

Jed's arrival had been as rough as he had expected. The pain of losing his father was reinvigorated thanks to the undeniable feel of him everywhere. A vision of him lurked in the darkened alleys, behind the columns of greco-roman-style buildings, and in the music that often poured out of windows and doorways. He even heard him in the Cuban Spanish being spoken all around him… in the cut-off s's and less precise pronunciations. Todd spoke a very Havana-street kind of Spanish, Jed had since learned through his friendship with ex-MK soldiers who worked with Téa. The coup de gras though was where his hotel was located: right next to the bar where he had first seen Todd… fighting… getting the shit beaten out of him and biting the ear off his opponent. He hadn't exactly planned that. But he wondered if some unconscious part of him knew exactly the location.

It was all too much, really.

So Jed spent his first night in Havana getting righteously drunk in the hotel bar, flirting with the pretty bartender, and staying up late in his room, eyes out the windows onto the noisy boulevard beneath… listening to Havana, and remembering.

Ian and he now walked the wet streets, through the noontime crowd. He wore his blue beanie, a kind of wish that his dad was looking down at him, that he could see the blue and know Jed was in Havana again. "Hat's off to you, Pops," he had whispered as he adjusted the beanie when he got dressed.

Ian grabbed Jed's arm and guided him into a café to grab lunch. Jed was starving, slightly hung over. "I thought you'd never ask," he quipped.

Ian laughed, "Always speak up! I am happy to serve!"

Once seated, Ian quietly shared the whole story about the day of the bombing, the wild pursuit of the green van to the out-of-town airport. Jedediah listened but didn't really understand what Ian was getting at. As they ate, the reporter explained that he had a contact in the licensing agency for vehicles. He learned that the particular van was registered to the nephew of Havana's Chief of Police and rumor said it was a cover for an _ambulance._

Ian aimed dark eyes at Jed, a bit of a squint, "Do you understand… ambulance?"

"Yeah…?"

Ian nodded, bit off more of his sandwich, and then, while chewing, asked, "The Chief in America… he gave you a file?"

"He did, I brought it."

To add to Jed's investigative efforts, Bo Buchanan had given him a copy of a redacted file related to the bombing. Top secret shit. The docs and the autopsy photos never referenced Todd directly though so if they got lost, no harm, no foul.

"It included the coroner pictures?"

"Yeah… the gold chain." Jed stopped eating, sat back and crossed his arms. "What are you all thinking? Bo pointed this out to me—"

"Your father wore a Catholic pendant of a saint on a _silver_ chain, yes?"

"Yes, I saw it myself. I asked him about it. His… friend… Rico Macias, gave it to him."

"Exactly as I understand. He did not wear gold, the chief said. Your father never had a gold chain. And the picture is very clear. A gold chain on a burned body."

Jedediah pinched the bridge of his nose, the rum-induced headache worsening. "Yeah," he said heavily. "So this body… this picture… isn't my dad."

"Exactly. So where is your father?"

"That's why I'm here."

Ian reached across the table, "He was in the ambulance."

The reporter squeezed Jed's wrist, Jed found himself barely breathing, holding Ian's gaze.

"Taken where?"

Jed's voice had dropped in loudness to hardly there. It was a child's wish, a repeating nightmare that a mistake had been made like with Téa. Only far longer in its stretch. How often Jed dreamed that he walked into Todd's office at the Sun, expecting the current editor, and when the chair turned, it wasn't that guy but Todd. Jed would wake crying, knowing it was fantasy. His heart broke all over again every time.

"A body on a stretcher was put onto a plane," Ian explained. "The plane flew to _Baracoa_ , near Guantanamo Bay, a more … isolated part of Cuba. There are no records of the flight because it was a private flight and I do not have inside contacts to break… to get that information. I do not know the pilot of the plane. I have a picture of the plane but nothing that can be used to determine the pilot or who owns that plane."

Jed heard "body." Oh. Right. They had to hide the body. Separate Todd's body from the bombing. But… someone id'd him already at the site so it got complicated. This is what got "scrubbed." His dad's presence at all. Didn't change things. Still dead. Just a missing body maybe.

Shrugging, Jed asked, "So where'd they bury him? And are the ashes at my moms' house the gold-chain guy? Are we all about to put the ashes of some fuckin' pedophile in the family crypt?"

Ian saw the let-down, saw the young son didn't understand. He scratched his head, chewed his lip. "No ashes," he said. "No burial."

"Well that's just fuckin' great. Did an acid thing, huh? We're not even gonna get a body back?" His voice cracked, god damn it. Tears floated and the world blurred. He looked at the sandwich, suddenly sick, listened to surrounding Spanish, thinking of Cuban sights and smells and the rain, God, that rain…

 _I love you, Jed. I am so proud of you._

"Jesus Christ, why did I come here? If no body, no point." Jed stood up and rushed away from the table, running like hell because… he didn't care about Cuba, or the government, or—

Ian grabbed the kid by the arm, out on the sidewalk, a hard grab that almost hurt.

"Jedediah! You are not listening!"

"What the fuck do you want from me?! Let me go!"

"The ambulance was driving FAST! Do you understand?! Listen, listen," he insisted. "The driver was in a hurry to get to the airport. I saw a bag of fluid like in a hospital. The body…. was not dead. I believe your father was on the stretcher. I believe he survived the bombing and is alive. Today, now, all this time!"

Clouds crashed above them and typical warm rain started to pour down on them. Jed took off his beanie and wiped his face but it was useless because rain just kept coming. Ian laughed at it and gently pushed the kid backwards, under a covering. And he just moved. Just slid back. Stunned.

"You hear me now, yes? You see why the Chief asked you to come here? It is right?"

Now, now… Jed got it.

 _Oh my fucking GOD._

"What if you're wrong, man? I'll die all over again. I can't have that kinda hope."

Ian's face crumpled with that truth, "Yes, yes, you are right. I know… it is possible. But if there is the smallest _chance?_ Do you just walk away?"

That _was_ a question wasn't it? Jed chuffed, "No, no, of course not. It'll kill me though? I'll die all over again."

He started to cry at the thought of it, at thinking about his father dying so violently in that explosion, but pulled it back. They began to walk and for real now, he saw his father everywhere. And a strain of relief began to run through him, a feeling he did not want because the letdown would be devastating. They walked in silence.

Finally, they entered the civil service section of Havana. Jed had just been following Ian's path, unthinkingly. Ian said he had a contact in the coroner's office. That's where they were going. They would interview the friend. Get him to spill information on those pictures, on the gold chain. Jed felt more numb than hopeful or worried or even skeptical.

It was in that empty mental space that Jed stopped hard in his tracks and grabbed the arm of Ian to slow him down.

Ian muttered, "What, what?"

Jed nodded his head in a direction across the street. A man stood right next to an office entrance, smoking and looking at some papers in his hands. He wore the classic _guayabera_ and slacks, looking to be in his 40s. Jed knew him. He was an American. He was a lawyer who worked for Pedro Moreno. It was strange to see him here. Jed couldn't put his finger on why exactly.

"What is it?" Ian asked softly.

Jed said, "That guy...I'm surprised he's here… considering the mess with MK lately. He doesn't usually leave…"

And that was what struck Jed. This guy never set foot in Cuba. Ever. His job was to monitor the home front. It was very strange for him to be here. Jed even wondered if he was wrong about who he was. He looked hard at him. No, no, he wasn't wrong. He was looking at Cornelius Bravo.

Jed explained who he thought the guy might be. Ian whistled a long, low whistle and eased the two of them into the cover of a storefront doorway.

Ian posited, "MK operations were… _eh…_ disrupted since the bombing. That changes behaviors." He paused, eyeing the man across the street with a grave seriousness. "But… you know what is very strange, young son? Moreno and his people do not travel commercial. The office? Is a travel office."

"Yeah, they always fly Pedro's plane. Is this guy doing something behind his back?"

The lawyer tossed the cigarette butt and headed away, towards the downtown area without seeing his observers. Ian then crossed the street, Jed trailing him, entered the travel office, and made a beeline to the worker in charge, a young woman, prettied up, professional.

She smiled, " _May I help you?"_

" _I have money. Tell me… the man in the suit, did he buy an airline ticket? Train? Bus?_ "

She smiled awkwardly… then realized he was talking about the customer who just left. She grinned more confidently now.

" _How much?"_ she quipped.

Ian laughed and dug out some bills, murmuring in English, "God, I love my people." He tossed the money down in front of her and she shook her head at the generous amount, a wry expression on her face.

" _Shameless_ ," she said.

She then tucked the bills into her bra, seductively. She turned to a stack of papers, flipped through them, and pulled a sheet out. She stood and made a copy on an old bulky copier. She folded the copy and handed it to Ian.

" _Bon voyage,"_ she said before returning to her desk and shooing the men away.

Outside, back across the street, Ian unfolded the paper. It was a receipt. A plane ticket. Ian scanned the words. He glanced up at Jed.

"The question, my young friend, is not... why is the lawyer in Havana, but why… is he flying a commercial plane to _Baracoa_? The very place… the other plane went… on the day of the bombing." He waved the paper under Jed's chin.

Jed huffed… "Can't be."

Ian laughed and slapped Jed's shoulder who still wore a look of shock on his face.

"Let's go to the coroner," Ian said, "… then we hire a car. You and I are driving to _Baracoa_. Tonight. Beautiful long drive. This ticket is for two days from now and I want to be there when the lawyer lands. He is going to take us to where your father is. I am CERTAIN!"

* * *

Téa walked with confidence down Llanview Boulevard, Tony a few steps behind her. It was a cool summer night, a relief to Llanview citizens. It had been so very hot lately. R.J.'s worries over her safety irked her, as did his supposition that her draining of MK was a cause for _Los Muertos_ coming to town. Rolon had confirmed their presence with just a few words.

 _We got a problem._

So what? She grumbled to herself. Gang business wasn't on her. Reminded her of how hot after Todd Bo Buchanan had been for Horenda's murder, claiming the prison kill caused all that trouble with _Los Serranos_ on the streets, all those crossfire deaths. It wasn't right. That hadn't been on Todd and _this_ wasn't on her no matter what R.J. thought.

She _could_ blame Bo for all this...

She stopped walking, breathing hard all of a sudden. _Fucking MK._ If Bo hadn't gone after Todd—

 _If, if, if..._

If Bo hadn't gone after Todd, would she still be under a rock? Would he have maintained that low-level-under-her-radar heroin use for another ten years? Still be using those whores with all those prick restrictions R.J. mentioned so long ago that he didn't consider _fucking_? Would she not have shot him? Would Cuba never have happened? Would MK still be living large and in charge?

 _Would he still be alive had she stayed under a rock? Blind to MK and all his pain?_

Rolon wasn't driving her tonight. She forced him to go home. She needed to get out of the damn office and had insisted on the stroll to Angel Square. She wanted to sit at the diner. She hadn't been there since before Havana. The place was too close to Todd, to their little family. They used to go there all the time, Carlotta loving it, loving to see the children. The place had been wrecked in Téa's heart. It was where Bo had tracked Todd down to question him on Horenda and the whole rotten ball got rolling… downhill… speeding straight into her house. Demolishing it.

Blowing her life up to Kingdom Come.

"Ms. Delgado? You okay?"

She turned and studied Tony Valencia. She leaned back against the wall next to a closed shop. Dug into her purse for a cigarette. A new habit. She didn't inhale and Todd would have laughed at her. _You can still get tongue cancer, beautiful woman._ It was a menthol. Mint to cover up the poison.

Tony was her personal bodyguard for all intents and purposes. He lit her cigarette and took a step back, giving her space. She knew a little about him. He was former MK, Cuban, did security for them too. He had a record, did time at Statesville for low level dealing of MK product. He was never an addict. He had to show her his arms, had to take a drug test. She knew none of that meant anything but demanded it anyway. She made him take classes on law enforcement before he began working for her. He was smart, handsome, wore the same kind of tattoos that most MK men had: snakes and letters. His sharp rugged features matched his strong body, his height. He was six foot two. He had lovely tight black curls that showed an Afro heritage. He couldn't be more than 30. She trusted him because Rolon vouched for him and he proved his dedication to her every day.

"Why did you leave MK, for… _me_?"

He pulled up short, surprised. He glanced around, up and down the streets. Making sure things were clear. The traffic was typical going-home traffic. He patted his side, checking for his gun that lay like a scorpion under the fabric of his summer tan-colored jacket. Thanks to Téa, he got a full pardon for his criminal acts as a teenager, regained his gun rights, voting rights. And now he had full legitimacy working for Method Makers, Inc. and... _La Reina..._ as all the former MK men called her. And the women, too. Though Gloria always added a little sarcasm when she said it, or admiration. Téa was never quite sure what was behind Gloria's natural Mona Lisa gaze when she murmured, _La Reina_.

Tony smiled, a charming smile that revealed a dimple, and said, "You are… special." He had a heavy New York accent. "You offered my friends a way outta darkness. I wanna protect that. You."

"Drugs are still here, weapons, money laundering for other gangs, the new business of identification theft-that's a popular one these days-won't MK always be a temptation? More money, more power?"

"More possibility of prison. I was tired, Ms. Delgado. You were… like an oasis." There was something sad in his eyes when he said that, the smile gone.

Téa found herself sighing. Admittedly, her breakdown with R.J. had shifted things for her. She realized that she had been cursing Todd less today. A bloom of hurt washed upwards at the thought of him. Even the ghost had changed form. Since her tears he lurked less in the real world and more in her mind. He was in an old black tee-shirt, worn to silken softness, black bike shorts, as comfortable as he'd ever be in the safest place he would ever be, in bed, with her. She could see a smile on his face, a gentleness that he showed only to his children, to her. Her... _Todd_. She missed him…that man...

Terribly. In an inconsolable way.

 _God damn you, you fucking bastard._

She tossed the cigarette, orange light flickering, and before much thinking could take place, a screeching of tires got Tony to grab her and push her against the wall. Sure enough, shots were fired, seeming to be right above her head, thunder-like sounds echoing throughout the street, against the buildings, screams following.

Téa was panting, tucked tightly under the protective weight of Tony… the screams continuing. "Oh my god," she snapped. She knew there'd been a drive-by shooting but didn't think she was the target. She didn't think she'd been shot either. A flash of her babies at home stirred but she cut it off because she could not think of the possibility that they could be truly orphaned.

 _All good, all okay. Not dying today._

When the sirens started from a distance, Tony released her.

"Are you okay? Were you hit?" He sounded urgent, checking her all over, hard hands on her waist, checking beneath her jacket, her hips. He thoughtlessly pressed the center of her chest. Checking. She couldn't miss the intense concern on his face.

"Yes, fine, yes—" She shook him by the shoulders. "Tony… I'm okay. They weren't after me."

Immediately, they turned to look at a small crowd forming, two young men on the ground, yards away. He looked at her and said hurriedly.

"Let's get outta here... now."

"Who do you think they are? Are they kids? Jesus CHRIST."

"Hard to tell from here," he said, pulling her along towards her office, away from the victims. Away from cops. "Shit," he cursed quietly.

"Stop, please, I need to see them," she said. "I can find out who they are—the cops will talk to me."

He didn't want to, his whole body resisting. And she knew why. "You're not in a gang anymore, Tony. You're a security guard for a lawyer. Completely legitimate. No one will harass you. It's okay."

He finally relented. He'd also be able to tell which gang, if any, the downed kids belonged to—just by looking. When they got there, blood smeared the sidewalk already, two bodies the owners of the red. Across the street, two detective-types, badges around their necks, tore out of their unmarked car. Must have been in the area. Too quick a response. The place was going to be swarming soon with uniforms. Téa took in the screaming girlfriends, the raging friends. The victims did indeed look like kids, and looked very dead.

This felt like Horenda all over again, only this was no crossfire.

Téa didn't have to ask any police officer which gang had been hit. At the same time, Téa and Tony both said to the other, "Reservation." These kids belonged to one of the most well-known Native American gangs, the Blue Mountain Motorcycle Club… they could tell by the jackets. Particular blue striping.

Téa turned on her heels. NOW she wanted out. She did not want pictures with her near these dead kids, had no interest in talking to authority. The two headed back to her office before those cops could stop them. She checked her phone, as she hustled away from the crime scene, texted Rolon.

 _Who killed Rez kids on the Boulevard?!_

Tony was walking protectively, clearly anxious to get into covering. The door to Téa's building lay feet ahead. This killing was serious, and a pit in her stomach demanded she think, think, think, but she didn't want to. She couldn't give weight to what R.J. had told her. This had nothing to do with her!

They were right at the door… the safety of her building….

Except the entranceway was blocked. A stranger stood there. He was thickly built, had longish black hair, and wore unremarkable clothes. He had distinctive tattoos on his face, swirling lines that embraced his cheeks on both sides.

" _Hey abogada, looking good tonight."_

Tony stepped in front of Téa and said in Spanish, " _Get back to your sewer, you rat."_

The man chuckled. His accent was Cuban. But he was not MK. Téa cursed under her breath and moved Tony, pushed him aside as much as he'd let her.

"I'm not afraid," she hissed. Tony moved slightly. He saw she had her own weapon at her side, a hand tightly gripping a smallish pistol. He gripped his own gun.

"What do want?" she asked, her head up, chin thrusted. Her voice was hard, seething with accusation. She figured she knew who this fucker was, or at least which gang he was affiliated with, figuring immediately… and she knew he had just taken part in some way on the hit on those kids.

"I'm here to bring you a gift—this basket of fruits." Down at his feet was… a massive basket of tropical fruit and flowers. Colorful, bright with summer. She glared at him.

He laughed. "We heard that if we wanted to make a name for ourselves in the great state of Pennsylvania, we should pay our proper respects to _La Reina Puertorriqueña._ So here you go. _Frutas para tí."_

She walked right up to him. Teeth gritted, she said, "Get out of my city, get out of this region. You're invading without permission."

He chuckled, eyes on her pistol for the briefest of seconds. He placed a hand on his own weapon at his waist. Patted it.

" _Oh cariña, Los Muertos do not need permission. We own all of you. The reservation. The Posse. MK. The Mennonites. The Irish. Everyone. Have you looked lately at business? Have you asked your men the status of territories?"_

He bowed and turned, laughing. He walked away, a cell phone in his hand. He made one last turn to Téa and Tony... and winked.

And the light went on in his hand and Tony grabbed Téa by the wrist. "Oh no, no, no…!"

Just in time, he shoved Téa to the ground, his body covering her completely, as the basket blew sky high, noisy, shocking, mangoes, bananas, guavas, just enough of Havana to remind her of the best of Cuba, fruit pulp raining all over the sidewalk, the scent of a fruit market all over the place.

Yeah, it was all for show.

Tony lifted his head to look at Téa beneath him. " _Reina?!"_

She pushed him off her in a wild forceful way and stood up. She wiped off bits of mango, banana, guava, in her hair, her chic black and white linens streaked with fruit and blackened ash of the basket itself. She bit down hard on her teeth, her whole body shaking with shock… and fury. With the back of her hand, she swiped her lips, tasting the sugar of the fruits.

Echoing Rolon, she growled, "We have a _fucking_ problem, God damn it."

Sirens began heading towards them. And in a way she couldn't deny, Téa was in it now. It didn't matter that MK had shrunk to nothing, that Method Makers, Inc. wasn't in any gang business… the reality was that MK men had come to her… that she had called them to her… and without any kind of conscious effort, she had become the Queen to the Mambo Kings.

"We really have a problem," she repeated. "Fucking HELL!"

 **To be continued...**


	10. Chapter 10

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 10**

When Todd awoke in the early morning, a tropical sun pouring into the room, the salty scent of the sea waking him up, he flipped the sheets off and scowled at his broken body. The pair of white briefs clinging to his narrow hips once belonged to someone else. Clothes for an orphan.

New scars snaked along his left side-left arm, left leg, left hip-from surgeries to repair damage he incurred in the bombing and maybe from a house falling on top of him, too. He rubbed his head and could feel the ridge of a new scar there. He took in his various tattoos and older scars-could feel Rico's kisses on all of them, making him swallow hard, a stone in his throat-and landed on the bullet wounds on his chest which were less visible to him and more a psychic awareness. He touched the silky spots, a testament to the miracle that his Delgado managed not to kill him. He strangely wanted to laugh at the very fact that he survived it. Dumb luck, really.

He lay back on the pillows and followed the cracks in the walls and the ceiling, noticing how they marked a path to an old painting hanging between the windows of a beatific Jesus Christ looking skyward. Long hair and a beard. Draped robe.

 _I'm immortal, Delgado, don't you know that?_

She had been so angry, hurt, horrified at the carnage at R.J.'s club. She nearly got killed herself, a thought he forever avoided and yet there it was. The _what-if_ of _that_ was too fresh, the grief of losing her too real still even though he was confident she was alive. But yeah, a _Serrano_ soldier shot R.J.'s bodyguard and Delgado shot him before he could get to her. Straight-up self-defense. Did he even know at that time she had a gun? Certainly he didn't know she had any experience shooting one. He lazily caressed the twin wounds...another case of self-defense only this time against _Blanco._ It was why most likely she was never charged.

 _Blanco was the only one who could have survived the shooting. It's just like him to get shot and LIVE._

He wiped hard at his face, rubbing away imaginary grime. He supposed it was _just like Blanco_ to murder 13 in a bombing he made happen and live. Survive. She thought _Todd_ had died however.

 _Did he?_

He remembered Téa aiming at him, right at him, and then… waking up in intensive care and Jed telling him to chill the fuck out. That kid. His wild-child son who never stopped trying to reach him, to help him, to love him, to make him be a father to him. Guilt stabbed at him… or something… at all of it. Everything. He felt sick because what Téa meant was that the _good_ part of him died, the _human_ part.

He had to shift gears.

Nothing to say… nothing.

Thinking on the bullets got him to consider all the memories he now possessed. They had shifted in form, in presentation. He had awakened from the coma to an unfolding of a previously crumpled drawing or treasure map or... wait, no, no, it was more like a jigsaw puzzle that had been missing pieces, the halfway-filled box tipped and spilling out over a table, some whole sections still together, others not so much. Just a mess, nonsense, because of all those missing pieces. But now… everything was there… all the pieces... and it was put together perfectly into a single whole.

If a stranger looked at it, he'd see a massive medieval painting of any scene in Dante's hell with the muted colors, blackened lightning-lit skies, naked bodies in agony, some torn up, some not, some with tails and sharp shark-like teeth. Human detritus.

He saw it all, too, standing right next to that stranger in the gallery of horrors.

 _It's terrifying, isn't it?_

 _Positively. Though I've seen worse._

 _The only relief is that it's pretend, imaginary, the acid-induced, heroin-tinged delusions of an absolute madman._

 _That's not true. We're not looking at art…pretend bullshit...fiction. We're standing in front of my fucking history._

He closed his eyes, shoving himself into that virtual corner of a distant room he liked, trying to make himself safe, thinking on the hell that was, is, his life from a needed distance, thinking of all the touching that made him who he was, that led him here. He knew full well, _now,_ what he did to control his hell, knew _everything_ that the now-found puzzle pieces represented.

It's why the blissful white had abandoned him. There was nothing to hide from anymore.

After he had enough of _that_ , he rolled over onto his side and watched sleeping Raquel, back on her little cot, her bloodied robe tossed to the side. She had stayed up with him and comforted him the best she could with her words and motherly caresses even though there was no comforting to be had. _Fucked six ways to Sunday._ That she bothered brought a kind of weakness to him, that she left her clinic and _paladar_ was too much, making him angry at how very undeserving he was of such sacrifice. He eventually got to his own bed and slept for a while. And now…

Back to his broken body, such abnormal bullshit, finding his skin warm and real and distinct, like another being separate from his internal self. _Just body parts._ He knew that wasn't true and yet… the thought hovered. He ran a hand across his chest, fingertips lingering at his nipples, circling the suddenly stiffened nubs, fingers drifting down his belly to the beginning of hair that led further down. He felt for his individual ribs, wondering if they'd been broken in the fallen house, smoothing his chest more, passing over the patch on his side where the feeding tube had been, an actual hole that was still healing since Raquel removed the shunt. He was surprisingly _awake_ as he touched himself, as he tried to get familiar with the brokenness, seeing if the sensations were the same as before.

Then… he palmed his brief-covered cock, experiencing a low-level humming like the buzz of insects from the convent forest.

 _She is sleeping across the room-she'll never know._ _Go ahead. Do it._

He checked to see if Raquel was really asleep and she seemed to be... so… he reached inside the briefs and slowly tugged his flaccid cock, slowly trying to further awaken himself, thinking more nonsense like if _that_ worked then maybe the rest of him would follow suit so he concentrated on imagery from his teenage years, images that meant nothing, faceless bodies, breasts, a nipple in his mouth, fleshy asses, a cunt's wetness as his fingers slid inside or his dick, in and out and in and out, with a luscious pink delicate mouth at his neck and on his lips, a tongue licking him, and then...beyond his control… there were the flat planes of a strong but slender male body, the feel of another dick in his hand that wasn't his own, the taste of cum in his mouth, an aggressive masculine kiss, tongue deep in his mouth, a body writhing on top of his, their cocks rubbing and the intensifying excitement from it, two bodies next to him now, over him, on him, under him, curvy and soft, strong and tight, hot and breathy noise coming from all of them...

And suddenly it was his own breathing he heard, his own chest visibly rising and falling, his own hips thrusting into his tightened fist, fine sweat covering him as all his muscles tensed at the desperate chase, his head tilted back on the pillow, mouth parted… his cock hard and willing…

 _So close, so wet, in what, under five minutes? If even that? Yeah, yeah…beautiful boy…you're gonna come all over my hand... oh yeah… ain't you the perfect little faggot._

Aaaand… no, no, no… couldn't… wouldn't… goddamn, his memories served him well.

Couldn't… wouldn't… because how could he?

 _You… are… dead._

 _Dead people don't come._

Raquel was still sleeping, praise the gods. He was lying back, legs spread, cock softening like a sprung balloon with no pleasure of any pop. He rubbed his shaved head and slammed palms to his mouth to scream but of course he had no effective voice, nothing but raspy gravel, so no scream, no noise.

 _Still fucking broken._

The wheelchair was right next to the bed. Using the railing, he pulled himself up, then swung his legs to the side, feet on the cool floor. He jerked them up immediately because the sensation of the wood made him cringe with bizarre over-sensitivity. Abram was on the bed, curious, tilting his head. Todd affectionately pushed the dog's big black head away to no avail. The dog returned his gaze, looking as if to say…

 _Well, playing with your dick didn't do much so… remember what happened last night?_

He tenderly touched his split chin. Bruised. Cut. Not enough to get stitches, but enough to be a physical show of his humiliation. Using his hands on the mattress as leverage, he pushed off again, standing for a couple of seconds. He bent slightly and grabbed the handlebars of the wheelchair to hold himself up. The muscles of his legs and back strained immediately, his entire body shaking with stress. He wasn't going to give up though. No, he needed to do this. He had to not be so fucking broken.

He lifted a foot, and then another, the chair sliding forward. He stood still, pain and weakness and that torturous crawling sensation in his feet threatening to send him back to bed.

 _Keep going, asshole._

"Fuck you," he cursed beneath his breath.

He did it again and again, lifting, slide, lifting, slide. He managed a yard in five minutes, sweating like he'd run a mile. The bathroom door was open, right ahead of him. Lift, slide, lift, slide, lift, slide.

He rested, checking Abram who was now panting, tongue hanging out. Sympathetic exhaustion. He continued his slow-as-fuck walk and now… the toilet. Never did a commode look so inviting. He lifted alternating feet a couple more times and finally sat on the king's throne, breathing hard, trembling like crazy.

Raquel stood at the door, smiling.

" _Look… a man walks. Viva!"_

He glared at her but then… didn't. He needed her help to get the goddamn briefs down because the trip had wrung him out. He didn't trust being able to lift himself up for that little one-handed feat. She smiled and walked close to him. When he reached for her, arms around her neck, he found himself holding onto her tight, tight, tight, shaking still from the effort to walk across the room.

She stilled and breathed, " _Hold me as you need."_

He couldn't let go, feeling a child again, afraid that he'd never see his family, that this was all there would ever be. He held on, soaked in fear and sorrow once more, like a repeating nightmare, hardly able to breathe under the weight of it. God, how he wanted Téa now, how he needed to see her now, terrified that it didn't matter if she was alive, that it wouldn't matter…

...because if he couldn't leave the convent… he was the dead one. He was dead _now…_ he would stay dead.

Nothing to say, nothing, nothing.

When he finally loosened his grip—he couldn't even say how long he'd held her—Raquel lifted him with his little bit of leg-effort, her hand pressed hard on his back, huffing in Spanish, " _Bueno, chico, bueno_. _"_ She eased off the briefs, inches at a time, down his thighs, before gentling him down again. She did not acknowledge his breathless hold of her any further. She did not look at the tears that streaked his cheeks.

She always closed the door and waited for him to call for her. Today, she left it open a crack so he could see her gather up his showering stuff. He watched her as she moved around the room. She returned and dropped the washcloth, a fresh bar of soap, and a tub with a cup, toothbrush and toothpaste, on the shower floor. She put towels on a small table that was just out of range of the shower's spray. Fresh clothes, too.

And then she stood at the shower a few seconds, seeming to be lost in thought. She wasn't though. She moved the wheelchair so he could move himself from the toilet to the shower seat without assistance. She adjusted the showerhead.

" _You can do this,"_ she said, eyes hard on his. It was more a command than a motivational push.

She turned on the water. The bathroom was Roman-style, meaning no tub, just a showerhead spraying water onto the slightly slanted floor with a drain in the center. There were no glass shower doors to impede him, no wall between the toilet and falling water.

" _If you need me, call me. I will be right out the door."_

She gently shut the door. Normally, she moved him, the two together hobbling to the shower seat. Not today.

Once he did his business, he then had a job to do. Get to the shower. He huffed, trying to get up the energy to do it. He bit his lip, contemplated calling out for Raquel, but then stopped fighting the inevitable. He kicked the briefs away, not without a little difficulty, and looked at the forbidding seat just far enough away that he'd have to work, that he could fall spectacularly.

He then leaned over and grabbed the handles once again. He shoved one foot back. Then, using all the strength he could muster in his arms, willing his legs to do what they were supposed to do, he forced himself up. He stood, shaking, but not quite as much as before. He then turned slightly and took a step that would have him standing with only one hand on the wheelchair. He took one more step…unassisted... and then grabbed the back of shower seat. Slowly, slowly… one step, two, three...he shifted over and... _voila!_

He was on the shower seat at last. He raised his arms above his head in absurd triumph. Fists in the air. Not a lot but hey, small fuckin' miracles.

He let the water wet him and he tasted the blessed drops that cooled his body in a way he needed. And in that Cuban convent's rain, he bent over and picked up the washcloth and soap.

When Raquel came in later, the shower was off and he was mostly dry. His hair was wet from a good shampooing and rinse. The short hair made it easy. He was glad of it. The towel lay across his lap as he remained on the shower seat. He kicked the last of the puddled water, trying to desensitize his feet, but not quite getting there. He grunted at the feel and shuddered. She had the wheelchair and moved it so he could get to it himself.

She then asked a question he had been expecting.

" _Are you ready to see Pedro today?"_

He wanted to answer her but found he couldn't. It wasn't a physical thing but a hate thing. The mere idea of seeing that man shut him down.

 _Information though_.

Critical, yes, but…to face him? To see Pedro, to know he was his captor, a kidnapper…a protector of everything that put him in this convent... well, he didn't have it in him to give that much.

He shook his head. Silent as a night sky.

Raquel's face changed. Grew worried. She watched him some moments.

" _You need to speak with him, child."_

What he couldn't say, what he refused to give voice to because to do so would acknowledge Pedro, would affirm the captivity, what he wanted to say was that he had to get stronger first, he had to be able to stand, if not walk. He had to know that if he needed to…

He shook his head, head dipped down.

Raquel moved closer and squatted down to get into his line of vision.

" _Tell me,"_ she said.

He licked his lips and after some beats said, "I cannot...talk with him… unless I know… that I have… _la fuerza..._ _para matarlo._ I need that."

By Raquel's face… he knew she understood. _The strength to kill him._ The hate must have been radiating like the sun. She nodded and then opened her robe, flashing the blade at her waist, snug in its leather strap. She had already changed into her day clothes, gone the comfy sleepy stuff.

" _When you meet with him, you can have this. For protection."_

His eyes lit with a familiar darkness that filled Raquel with concern but not enough to retract her promise. He had good reason to not trust Pedro Moreno. She did not blame him.

" _You also have Abram."_

That was true. His canine buddy would tear the throat out of an attacker. _"Gracias, mí angel,"_ he said quietly.

" _And now… you work to get to yourself again. Every step, every breath… will be to move forward. Do you hear me?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Get to the wheelchair then."_

* * *

They had driven pretty much all night and finally arrived in Baracoa the day before the supposed arrival of the MK lawyer. The interview with the contact from the coroner's department didn't produce a smoking gun per se but did confirm a critical piece of information: missing files.

 _Every document with regard to the American Todd Manning was taken by the Chief of Havana PD, Santiago Cruz. Those records are under seal. Or simply gone._

Mixed bag. The swiped files supported the idea that the government wanted Todd's involvement hidden. The fact that it was the Chief of Havana PD, however, made the swipe slightly less official. If this was as political as the FBI and Commissioner Buchanan made it out to be, Cuban ministry would have confiscated the records, not local PD.

So yeah, mixed bag.

They checked into a small _casa particular_ , slept for a while, then hit the streets in the late afternoon.

As usual, Jed was starving so the two men hit the first place they saw, sat at a table in the back, and happily ordered beers and a couple of shrimp and fish dishes. Over the welcomed food, Ian shared about his paternal family, one divided by Fidel Castro. The dictator tore his family apart, his grandfather escaping to the U.S. with his aunt while his grandmother stayed in Cuba with his dad.

"I met _mí Tia Dalia_ in Miami and my cousins and children. Very different from us. We had it hard but we love our country and want better — my American cousins are fortunate and have so much yet they do not appreciate. I was sad about that."

"Yeah that's America for you. We're spoiled as fuck."

Ian laughed and they continued chatting, Ian talking about Baracoa itself. The city was fairly small, rustic, still boasting dirt roads in places, and very old-style housing and architecture dating back to the 18th century. Mainly, modern Baracoa was a little-known tropical paradise with a lush jungle, a beautiful beach blessedly clean of the usual tourists plaguing much of the Caribbean, and _El Yunque,_ the outcrop of limestone rock that people sought to climb from all over.

"Did you know that Baracoa once had a wooden cross built by your Americans' favorite Christopher Columbus himself?"

"He's not enjoying the same popularity he once did. His Twitter account would be seriously ratioed."

Once again, Ian laughed and Jed doubted he had a clue what he'd meant about the Twitter account. They both dug into their food, Jed's a soup featuring local seafood, delicious white fish and shrimp in a red broth. The nearness to the ocean meant the sea permeated everything, its scent and moisture filling the air around them, its food filling _las paladares_. The humidity was so strong, it was almost a ghostly presence. And that _presence_ made Jed wonder when and how this foray would lead to Todd…

...if it even would. He also began to feel a little bit… _worried_. He could not ignore local PD's hiding files and a prominent MK lawyer in town.

Or Ian's involvement either.

 _Curious_.

They then walked the squares, one after the other with their monuments and statues and locals and tourists out for their own strolls, nighttime coming. Jed turned to Ian, "Is there a connection between Havana PD and MK?"

Ian raised his eyebrows and only hmmd at the idea, taking a notebook out of his pocket along with a tiny pen and scribbling. He nodded, "I will make a phone call in the morning. That, my friend, is a good question."

Despite logic telling Jed this was a fruitless journey, his head refusing to buy into the fantasy, he found that as they walked he searched for his father, listened for his voice, watched for the usual hunched-over self, head in a whiskey bottle, the long silver-touched brownish hair he wore. And the more he envisioned his father, the greater the worry.

What if they found him? Found Todd. A horrible thought bubbled up. Oh shit, what if they _did_ find Todd? And… Ian… wasn't such a good guy? Was this entire thing a search and kill operation rather than a search and rescue?

After their last stop at a bar, the two needed sleep. It was nearing eight. They walked a final street, heading towards _la_ _casa._

"Why do you care about finding my dad?" Jed asked quietly.

Ian turned and a heavy sigh reached Jed's ears. "Another good question." They kept walking.

"Maybe he's safer if he stays dead."

Ian sniffed and shrugged. "I am a reporter. This is what I do."

"I don't fuckin' believe you."

Another laugh. "It's a little late to suddenly question my motives."

"I was lost… and now I'm not." Jed stopped the walk. "My dad was a paranoid bastard and you know… the longer he's gone, the more I pick up on his paranoia. It ain't paranoid if everyone is really out to get you."

"You do not trust me."

"Hell no. I don't trust anyone, especially when it comes to my father. He might have been crazy… but he wasn't stupid. And today… right now… I'm feeling fuckin' stupid."

Ian nodded, a harsh, hard nod. The expression on his face proved Jed was correct. There was a goddamn story here and it wasn't about Cuba, or fuckin' journalism.

"Oh Jesus CHRIST," Jed groaned. "You better lay the shit out or I'm leaving-."

"And then what? I find him on my own. He will not have the protection you could give."

Without a whole lot of fuss, Jed gritted his teeth, growled like a pitbull, and to the shock of Ian, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and swung him around to where the reporter was hard up against a post of an old abandoned building, off the street, away from prying eyes. Shadows covered them well.

"What do you want with him? Why are you trying to FIND MY FATHER?! You've been marketing this shit harder than fuckin' Starbucks so TELL ME NOW!"

Before the reported could say anything, Jed made his point by smashing him against the post again, bits of plaster dusting them from above.

"FUCKIN' TALK!"

"I'm a reporter, Jedediah!"

"Nahhh… you just made a threat against him and if I was paranoid before… I'm really paranoid now."

"I am doing my job!"

Jed leaned forward at that, and whispered in Ian's ear…

"I promise you, my friend, if I leave because you're not talking… you leave with me… either at my side or via the ocean's current. NOBODY will fuckin' find YOUR body. Nobody will have pictures of YOUR body. _Comprende…_ asshole?"

Ian huffed hard and held Jed's wrists, trying to appease the furious young son at his throat. Resigned eyes gazed at Jed's. "Your father...might have killed someone I loved."

"WHO."

"His name was Ivan…"

"And?"

"I drove him to a house in the Old City, the one that blew up. Ivan was my cousin and your father was there at the house and that was the last I saw of Ivan."

"How do you know my father was there?"

Ian didn't talk for a minute, Jed's breath sawing in and out, fury riding every intake, every exhalation.

"Answer my question! How did you know my father was there?!"

"Ivan enjoyed watching your father fight. He used to do that. Ivan took me to the bars and we would watch and Ivan liked him and… "

"How did Ivan know him?"

"He was a pornographer! He was involved with a man named Manuel Caro. I tried to get Ivan out of that business but he did not care. I left Ivan at the house—"

Jedediah stepped back, releasing Ian with a sound of disgust. Sickened. "Are you a pornagrapher, too? Do you like kids?"

"No! No… no… Jedediah, I swear! I… I just want to know what happened to Ivan. That is all."

"So what happened? Why do you think my dad killed your cousin?"

"Because of connections. I left Ivan…and I stayed outside, waiting. I saw your father arrive. I saw him through the window, sitting and drinking… I knew Ivan would be happy to know he was there. Except Ivan never left the house. I figured he slept there maybe. Maybe he got to be with your father like he wanted so I left. I never saw him again. He disappeared. When I heard the bombing had to do with child trafficking, and put pieces together that maybe your father is responsible for the bomb and is being hidden by my government, maybe he also caused the death of Ivan?"

"Your cousin sounds like he deserved dying."

He smiled a sad smile. "Ivan was not a good person. But he had a mother, my aunt Elena… she loved him. She knew nothing about what he did. I swear on her life, on my own mother's life, I do not want to hurt your father. I want to know where Ivan is."

Jedediah leaned against the wall of the building, what looked to be a church. Lights were on inside, a warm yellow glow leaking out beneath the heavy front doors. There were a ton of these old churches in Baracoa. So much God… and so much godlessness. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

"We don't even know if he's alive."

"No… we do not."

"We don't know if he is the bomber either."

"You are right on that too."

"I don't trust you, man." And in one second, Jedediah knew he had to go home. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't do this. I can't help you find him. If it's even true he's alive. I got no way of knowing you're not doing this to hurt him."

"Jedediah, please…"

"Maybe Pedro Moreno knows what happened to Ivan. If my dad killed him, IF he did that… then Pedro would know."

Jedediah looked at the ground, keeping his peripheral vision on the reporter just in case the guy got ideas. But that was silly because Ian needed Jed to find Todd… because of the people Jedediah knew. They wouldn't necessarily be in Baracoa if Jed hadn't spotted the lawyer and Ian didn't know the guy from shit on the wall. Todd would be safer, if he was alive which was a longshot… if they left. The lawyer would come and go and Ian would still be in the dark.

Except... it was like saying goodbye all over again. Like burying his father for good. He laughed bitterly… he was so close, yeah? Like he felt how real it could be that Todd was alive.

They heard footsteps coming towards them, from the inside of the church. Heavy. Jed grabbed Ian like a bratty kid and dragged him to the side, deeper in the shadows.

The doors opened and a priest stood there, propping the door to allow a guest pass him. Only nobody came through, the person hanging back as the priest spoke assuring words in Spanish though in a somber tone. The priest, an older man, maybe in his 60s, nodded and lectured. Jed studied the place, knowing churches had been discouraged for a long time in Cuba but no longer. Religion had been making a comeback. The place was super old, like right out of a European history book, detailed stonework he knew most likely had been the work of enslaved natives, hundreds of years ago.

A sign near the door said, _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia._

Jed grew tired of the old man talking but didn't want to be a disrespectful American so he waited… holding Ian still, pressing him against the wall, the reporter accommodating him which had to mean something. Maybe he was not going to-

Holy SHIT.

Pedro Moreno cleared his throat as he walked past the priest. They shook hands, exchanging last words. Jedediah about dropped Ian but as he heard Ian draw a breath, Jed slammed a hand on the reporter's mouth, pushing him further into the shadows. Ian obviously recognized the leader of the Mambo Kings.

The priest watched Pedro walk a few feet away and then withdrew into the church, the doors closing.

Jed HAD to follow him. Now. The guy was being pretty passive so in a split decision, Jed hissed, "We're gonna see where he's going. If it's Todd? If my dad is at the end of this walk…so fuckin' help me… I will kill you if you mean to harm him."

"Young son… please… I mean it. I am not going to hurt him."

Pedro was now a block away.

"Fine. But don't forget… I mean it. I will kill you."

"And we will lose him if you keep wasting time with all your threats."

They had to hoof it to get Pedro in their sights again, still keeping a good distance behind him due to the paucity of any crowd as cover. The road they followed led them away from the city, a jungle accompanying the crawl giving Jed the shivers, the hum of bugs and possibly snakes and other tropical creatures they could not see filling the dark. The only light came from the moon.

Pedro turned on a road, heading deeper into the jungle. Ian stopped at the sign.

"A convent," he said. " _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia_. The Sisters of Mercy. The order that is associated with that church he was at. There's a medical clinic here and a…a winery." He chuckled but it quickly disappeared. "Did you hear me? A _medical clinic_."

Jed was silent, understanding what Ian suggested. A clinic meant hospital care… like a patient might need, like the patient on the gurney he saw boarding the plane.

The two headed up the road. Soon it widened to reveal a very old, ancient actually, stone church sanctuary with a tower flanked by single-level buildings that most likely created one large square. One side of the block was lit up, the clinic maybe,and the other wasn't. A residence maybe. The tower stretched upwards of five stories but windows on the third floor were visible and light shone there.

Ian and Jed couldn't see Pedro at first and worried they'd been made, easing into the cover of leafy tropical trees but then they spotted him. Pedro stood like a sentry, eyes upwards, glued it seemed to the tower windows. He then paced a little and soon walked towards the sanctuary. He opened the doors and then let them swing shut. He was inside.

Ian pushed at Jed for him to stay put and Jed got huffy. "You're not going anywhere."

"No, no, there is a plaque in Spanish… let me read it. Let me translate for you. I am not going inside."

Jed let him go.

Ian walked up to those heavy doors and spent a couple of minutes reading the plaque on the doors before turning and hoofing it back to Jed.

"What saint did your father wear?" he asked.

Jed sighed and like rote, said, " _Santo Pancracio_ , the patron saint of children and teenagers, a martyr who died at age fourteen." He said it heavily at the fact that this saint died at the same age his dad's life had been irreversibly changed, that Rico should have worn just this saint. That he had it to give.

Ian turned to Jed, his face bearing an unreadable expression but veering on some kind of mind-blown kinda thing. "Young son, guess which saint these sisters worship?"

Jed's mouth dropped open a little, "No—"

"Yes. _Santo Pancracio_."

"What is going on?"

They left, deciding not to risk Pedro seeing them. They walked the road in silence, finding the city equally quiet when they reached its limits, residents asleep, _los paladares_ closed. The two men were spent but there was something real here that was providing all the energy they needed.

Ian held the elbow of Jed as they walked, saying, "You asked what was going on. Well, we have a hospital run by a Catholic order that serves the saint your father wears, a convent being visited by Pedro Moreno. If I learn there is a connection with MK and the Chief of Havana PD tomorrow, we have found your father, I am sure."

It was all Jed could do to not cry, to not turn back, to not run to that goddamn convent. To not kill Ian Correa just in case he had ideas about revenge.

 _Could it possibly be?_

Ian then made a disturbing observation.

"Jedediah," he said, "You know what this means, yes?"

"Enlighten me."

" _Cuba_ isn't hiding Todd Manning, Pedro Moreno is."

To which Jed then said after a couple of seconds of stunned quiet, "WHY?"

"That is a question."

 _Holy… hell._

 **To be continued...**


	11. Chapter 11

**Caged** : **Reclamation**

 **Chapter 11**

The music grew into a heavy bass rap that Téa felt in her chest. She wore her most recent purchase, a Dolce & Gabbana red print dress with the thinnest straps at her shoulders, a $3,000 extravagance that clung to her body. She swung her hips and licked her lips and smiled at Gloria next to her as they made their way through the crowd at R.J.'s club. Gloria wore a revealing blue silk blouse with a pair of well-fitting black slacks and sharp-heeled sandals. Summer-wear for the two. A slightly rattled Tony and Rolon followed behind, watchful, vigilant.

Downright paranoid.

R.J. waited by his office for them with his arms crossed, fuming, after he sent a text that threatened Téa with a massive tantrum if she didn't get her beloved ass to his club.

 _NOW, girl._

The fruit basket prank by a smart-ass gangster from _Los Muertos_ infuriated him. Not much of a prank. She admitted… it got her attention. So much that after a day of distracted effort at work, she sent Rolon to fetch vodka for her and Gloria. They did shots at Téa's desk like college girls before heading out.

She locked arms with Gloria, pulling her in tight, sisterly, a picture of best friends. They swayed in time to the music and Téa laughed aloud, a foreign sound, alien. A joyful noise she did not recognize. As if she unexpectedly came across her own elementary school shot on her grandmother's wall. Hair done up goofily by her brother because her mother was gone, front teeth she had to grow into still, a thrift store dress with lace at the collar.

 _Who is that child on the wall, hopeful and bright and determined?_

 _It's you… before you were you._

"It's been forever since I've been here!" She shouted.

"How long, _chica!"_

Téa didn't want to say so she just shook her head and sang out, "Since forever!"

 _Since before I shot Todd Manning in my kitchen, the love of my life, mí alma, mí vida. Since before he looked at me with innocent shock and raised his hands to stop the bullets, saying Delgado, no, no. Since before I lost him._

Her smile faded and the drunk forced memories right to the forefront and she stopped walking because they took her breath away.

Abruptly, instead of indulging, she pulled Gloria into her arms and breathed her in, smelling her favorite perfume, air conditioning, an interwoven tang from a long day in the office. Long brown hair hit her lips at the embrace and Téa said loudly, trying to be heard above the music, "What was he like for you? Did he fuck you like he was never going to see you again?"

She didn't have to say his name.

Gloria popped her head back and saw the deep-down grief of her boss, eyes watering immediately in a kind of mad empathy.

"He fucked me," she yelled back, words not meant to be loud, "... like he knew I wasn't you."

"Goddamn vodka…," Téa murmured, far too softly to be heard. People bounced all around them, turned on, high, the darkness and booze the greatest remover of all inhibitions. Through the people she saw a man who reminded her of a younger Todd… tall, longish hair, not moving a lot, just kind of bopping and admiring the girl rocking next to him. Strange how her usual cussing of him didn't come spewing forth at the sight. Strange how his ghost didn't torment her now. In her drunken mock-joy, he was just gone.

"How would you know how he fucked me?" Téa demanded. "How would you know he was doing it differently?"

Her yell disintegrated into the heat of the room, into the frenetic body movements of the small crowd. Brown eyes bored into Gloria's lighter ones.

Her assistant hugged her, pulling her in, kissing her cheek as she did that, and then said. "Because when we had sex, _mami_ , he never looked at me _a los ojos._ Never in the eyes."

A flash of him bloomed in front of her, his naked marked body, a moment with Rico in bed, and he very much looked into dark eyes as that beautiful artist crawled on top of him and reached down to stroke his hard cock, as Todd gasped at the touch in that way he would when he was the most disconnected from all the bullshit in his own head and the most connected to his body, his hands coming up, one palm on Rico's head and the other reaching for Téa. The two were completely caught in this one moment for Téa, a bubble where they were truly present, real to each other, experiencing a love neither of them had ever had before.

She and Rico had almost saved him. _Love_ had almost saved him.

 _Las tres en la cama._

Strange how none of that upset her, that the vodka had _actually_ dulled her hate of him for leaving her. Fleetingly, she wondered where Rico was, a low-level heartbeat of desire to see him.

 _He left you, too, didn't he? Left you, knowing all you'd have to face that would be new and terrifying._

She should be cussing him out even more. Left her, Rico, _and_ his children. Maybe Jed's telling her enough times that he thought she was dead, that he lost _her_ , maybe that softened her.

Téa looked at Gloria and smiled drunkenly even though she wasn't nearly drunk enough. No amount of alcohol could take away her history in this town, in R.J.'s club, not enough vodka to buffer the bullets that now bounced around inside of her. She tugged Gloria the rest of the way until the two tumbled onto R.J.'s couch, laughing and breathless.

The door slammed shut, muffling the noise, and Téa waved a hand in the air, "Bring me drinks, Edward!"

"Who's Edward," Gloria asked, giggling, half lying on Téa.

R.J. didn't let the absurdity continue.

" _Los Muertos_ are here and they gunnin' for you! Do you get that?! They are on to all you been doin'!"

His voice and words sobered Téa right up, goddamnit. He reminded her of why she shot Todd in their pancakes-and-coffee kitchen, the last time she was here. Gang warfare was why. _Los Serranos_ got into a battle with _Blanco_ and his MK men and blood splashed the walls and floor. She remembered _Blanco_ showing her what life was like on the inside of his prison, and that _he…_

… was fucking good at being a monster.

 _You bastard._

She pretended the drunk hadn't abandoned her, glancing once at R.J. then back at Gloria, gazing into her eyes, light brown, almost amber. She imagined Todd kissing her, wondered if he kissed her at all. Maybe it was _Blanco_ who did all the _kissing_ for Todd. Strange how easy it was to see him in such sexual ways after so long of that being a mystery, easy to see him with others only though, never herself, couldn't feel that, couldn't see that.

 _No, no, no…only references to them, only far away visions._

She caressed Gloria's cheek. The woman smiled in her own inebriation, loose and willing, Téa knew. An unspoken message coming from her.

 _I'll show you what Blanco was like, what your husband did when he was so far away from you._

"Answer me, Téa."

She sighed and Gloria straightened up and the two women eyed R.J.

"What am I supposed to do, Gannon?" Téa asked in a smart-ass way, her tone sharp. She sat back on the couch, crossing her legs, stretching her arm across the back of the couch, pulling her hair up off her neck a moment or two. Cooling herself. "I'm not changing my company, my employees, what we're doing. This is a false flag. If you're playing gang wargames, don't look at me, look at them."

R.J. looked good these days, as handsome as ever, dreadlocks gorgeous, a trim beard roughening his face, tattoo on his chest visible through the open split of his fine aqua-colored shirt, one marking of many. His anger only made him more beautiful, more alive. Téa shook her head, a flurry of thoughts spinning, suddenly aware that many were about sex.

Curious, _strange,_ considering she'd been shut down for so very long. The prank had awakened her. The vodka.

 _Goddamnit._

"Yeah, yeah, I'm hearing a whole lotta denial so I took matters into my own hands."

 _Is that right?_

Téa repressed a laugh. Sex again. Snapped, "You put together an entourage."

"Four men gonna be 'round you at all times like presidential secret service. No more of this walking-alone bullshit—"

"I wasn't alone."

R.J. ignored her. "Tony told me how close the shooting of the Blue rez kids was to you. These pricks ain't messin' around and they tellin' you to watch the fuck out with that fruit basket."

" _Tropical_ fruit basket," Téa muttered, shrugging. In truth, she was not unmoved. She fully understood her own MK bullshit had leaked beyond the personally predesignated lines. What if something happened to her, where would her babies be then? Lucía, Reese, Esperanza. She fiddled with the hem of her dress, admired her matching red sandals. For all her admitted recklessness these days, she didn't like playing roulette with her children.

Although...

"I'm not bending to gang garbage. I refuse. Who's the head?"

"Eladio Merced. Goes by El. His specialty is disruption. Word is, he lovin' what's going on, lovin' this chaos. And you getting protection ain't _bending_ , it's not taking any risks."

Gloria chimed in, "Pedro Moreno had protection like that for a while. You get used to it."

"Well, if this _Eladio_ is keeping me on his radar, he will notice the security and I hate that," Téa grumbled. "Makes me look scared."

R.J. crossed his arms. He stood against his desk, sitting on it. He glowered at her a few moments before hissing, "You should be scared."

"I'm not." She glared right back at him.

"Well then... I am. For you. Tony's team lead. Other three is Lanzo, Mark, and Victor. All trained. All licensed to carry, not a felony among 'em. I vetted them today, interviewed them. I know them. Rolon does too, so do you. They have committed."

"This is ridiculous."

"To make sure _El_ doesn't get to you? Worth it." Gloria gave Téa a small nod, holding her hand, playing with her fingers, touching her fingernails. " _Los Muertos_ are really dangerous because they cater to Mexican and Guatamala cartels. Why take chances, _Téa_ _bonita_?"

"Whatever," Téa said, her lips tight, eyes on Gloria's affection. "Fine. Have them at my office next week."

"They here now. They been on you since you got here. It ain't up to you."

Téa shook her head, "You have gotta be kidding… R.J.! I am not doing this!" Now she got fiery, getting to her feet, getting in R.J.'s face. "No! I refuse!"

"Like hell you _refuse_ , woman. Someone's gotta keep they eye on you. 'Cause I swear… I'm thinkin' you got some kinda death wish. Just like your husband."

That shut Téa up. She froze for the barest of seconds, caught between a hot wish to slap R.J. and a flash of horror because… _no._ She was not the parent in the Manning-Delgado world with a desire to die. Not her. Never her. No sirree… that was Todd and he already accomplished that goal.

 _Fucking bastard, goddamn asshole._

R.J. knew he got her good. He was deadly serious. He had to make her understand that she played a dangerous game and was in first place right now with a hell of a climb ahead. There's a cost to winning. He didn't want it to be her life.

"Mark is Posse," R,J. said. "Other two… MK. So you still draining MK. You got that workin' for you."

Téa had to control herself. She huffed and a weird instinct came over her, a strange channeling. She wanted to spit in R.J.'s face, wanted to hawk and screw up her mouth and _spit._ She didn't. She was not her husband.

 _Who are you then?_

She then asked coolly, "What are the other gangs doing to end _Los Muertos_?"

R.J. tilted his head for a long few seconds before asking, " _Other gangs?"_

"Yes, the reservations, the Asian brothers, the other Latino orgs, whatever's left of MK? What are THEY all doing?"

"Why ain't you asking about the cops?"

"Because they're useless."

This blew him away. Completely unfamiliar response from the Téa Delgado he knew. "Right now," he said, his voice soft because she just knocked him off his ass, "it's a war out there. All territories is up for grabs. No unity. They fallin' to _Muertos._ Thanks to you.."

"I am not responsible! You have a lot of nerve trying to put this on me."

R.J. chuckled, shaking his head. Eyes on Téa, Gloria too. "I ain't blaming you for this mess… just sayin' you moved pieces."

Téa turned, having had enough. "Fine," she said. "I'm gonna dance now… come, pardner…"

"Don't you want to meet the team?"

"Why should I? They don't work for _me."_

And with that, she left, Gloria in tow.

Rolon waited outside the door when Téa and Gloria rushed past him. R.J. joined him, the two men watching them dance, an air of rebelliousness in their movements. Tony, Mark, Lanzo, and Victor hovered near and around her, mixing in with the crowd.

"She ain't herself," R.J. growled.

"Yeah, I know. She ain't that unawares though," Rolon added. "She knows she's having an impact on the streets."

"She wanted to hurt Moreno. She get her wish? Is he feelin' the loss?"

"Yeah, he is. He's back in _La Habana_. Had to escape the mess. Couldn't fix things."

"He tried?"

"Hell yeah, even hit me up. Get men back in place, he asked, but they ain't budging. They making money, getting legitimate. It's Moreno's dream...biting him in the ass. A year ago I'd have laughed like a _pinche_ _hiena_ that a little girl could crush MK. I ain't laughing now…"

The music shifted and Téa and Gloria got close, danced closer, giggling. Tony hung at a table next to the dance floor, eyes sharp and scanning the crowd.

"Well," bit out R.J. "She has protection. That's all that matters now."

"Hoping street wars end in our favor."

"Long shot. None a'this is good."

Across the floor of the club, Eladio Merced sat at a corner table sipping on rum and coke. He watched Téa Delgado move on the dance floor like an angel with devil's horns. Beautiful, hot, _tan atrevido…_ bold in how she took the MK soldiers off the streets. She'd done it slowly and effectively, as a Queen in her own right. The Mad King trained her well. And her work? Well, it made Eladio a new ruler in this region. Easy to take over territories in regard to drugs, weapons, and gambling once MK's areas of dominance fell, once strong players shifted focus to the marijuana industry.

He smiled to himself, swirling the sweet drink in his mouth as she danced nearer to him. She spotted him and he kept his eyes on her, getting her to grin in a small way, a private flirtation maybe. She wouldn't know him of course. The man she met on the boulevard with the gifted fruit basket was a soldier only and Eladio looked nothing like his men. Unlike them, he eschewed facial tattoos, or the intimidating muscled bodies, nor did he carry weapons. He didn't need to anymore. He also didn't need to work to draw the attention of beautiful women. Classic Greek looks worked for them, curly black hair, straight-edged features, the dimple on his chin. And like _La Reina,_ he had a taste for Dolce & Gabbana. His style screamed money.

Most didn't care how he got it, just that he had it.

She danced close to the other woman, not any man. Her friend maybe. A lover perhaps? Even better. Told him she'd be a wildcat in bed. He stood up and made his way to the side of the dance floor. He watched her, caught her eye once or twice. He smiled at her, chuckled, and she rolled her eyes charmingly, cutely. He turned and strolled to the bar. Ordered another drink. Stood looking into the glass. Willing _La Reina_ to come see him.

In two minutes, two men flanked him, one a tough-looking guy with dreads and the other a 250-pound gorilla with a nearly shaved head. Eladio glanced at one, then the other. They both leaned back, elbows on the counter. Watched the dance floor. When he turned to glimpse the man with the dreads, cold dark eyes had him.

"She ain't available," R.J. growled.

Eladio turned to the gorilla who grunted with a soft Cuban accent, "Make one move and I'll lay you out, brother."

Laughing, Eladio asked, "Whose sister is she?"

Nothing came back. He drank his booze and nodded to the gentlemen. "Another time then." He headed to the exit but not before flashing his brightest smile and wink to the dancing angel. He chuckled all the way to his car.

R.J. asked cooly, "Anyone we need to worry about? I didn't recognize him."

"Me either. But at this point, everyone is an enemy."

The night passed by and Téa tried her best to enjoy it, even flirting like hell with the man doing it first to her. She spied her team, R.J.'s team. Mark with the ginger-Afro hair from the Posse who laughed easily, Lanzo with the hipster suits he always wore and a sparkly smile and a wink, and Victor with his buzzed military cut, tough as hell but sweet as a puppy dog. And of course, mysterious, cool, aloof Tony.

 _Ridiculous._

She kept all emotions at bay, ignored the team, knowing things were so very different, feeling different. She did not know who she was without Todd at her side, did not know who she wanted to be. Either way, a stranger occupied her body.

Foreign. Alien.

When she got back home, she got dressed for bed and climbed into Reese's bed. Hugged the little boy to her and tried not to cry for Todd. No amount of alcohol soothed her broken heart, no dancing, no drug, no sex… there was no escape. She hugged him until he swatted at her to loosen her hold. She kissed his face until he was giggling and awake and she had to ease him back to sleep.

As she lay in bed, she wondered why she even had to bother one more second about _Los Muertos_? She'd flattened Pedro Moreno by taking the Mambo Kings… wasn't she done then? Didn't she do what she set out to do?

If so, why did she still thirst for blood?

* * *

Catching the MK lawyer at the airport had been easy, following him equally so. No surprise to see him meeting with Pedro Moreno at a café in town and immediately engaging in a serious, intense conversation. Par for the course. Typical. Nothing new. The day was hot and humid and Jed was wildly impatient.

"Don't say another word, Correa," he grumbled at Ian's attempt to analyze what they were looking at. They sat at a table across the street from Pedro and the lawyer, far enough away to not be noticed by their subjects.

"I am sure I am right though."

"I don't care if MK is a wreck, that they've been struck by morality and are hardly existing. Don't care."

"But—"

When Pedro emerged onto the street, and the lawyer stayed behind, Jed laid a hard hand on the reporter's shoulder to stop him from getting up.

He hissed at Ian, "You're gonna watch the lawyer. You're gonna try to get every bit of interesting bullshit you can from the lawyer."

"And you?"

"I'm on Moreno. Don't lose the fucking lawyer."

Ian pressed his lips in a tight line. This wasn't his plan. "But—"

"No objection or you end up in the sea."

Jed shuffled out of the cafe, free of Ian who he didn't trust anymore. He followed Pedro for a block then left him when he saw Pedro returning to his hotel.

At that, Jed caught a bicycle taxi and hopped into the carriage and said, "Take me to the convent, _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia."_ No English on the biker's part but he knew _Misericordia._ He smiled and waved and got to peddling.

He searched behind him to see if Ian had followed and didn't see him. The biker sweated in the sun and Jed thanked the gods he wore shorts and his sleeveless t-shirt. He looked like a typical American with his Van's deck shoes but he didn't care.

As they drove, Jed ran down everything he knew and it came down to basic facts. A van moved something from the bombing site. A plane flew to the airport outside Baracoa. A flight with a patient that had possibly come from the bombing in that van that was licensed as an ambulance. The convent. The saint being the same saint Todd wore around his neck. The convent operated a clinic. Pedro was in town, deeply connecting with convent and satellite church. Pedro was protecting someone he did not want anyone to know about. Even his own people.

Clearly this _someone_ might be wanted by cops. Or even by other gang members. Or even by other MK members.

Who?

 _Oh fuck._

Jed bit down at an obvious possibility he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of before. A probability. Of course. He wiped his forehead of sweat.

 _Jesus fucking CHRIST._

Pedro was probably hiding… _Manuel Caro._

"Oh for fuck's sake!"

Caro was missing. Not a stretch that he'd been in that house. Not a stretch that maybe confronting him had been the real last straw for his dad. That maybe seeing him, made him push the button. Or maybe Todd had no idea that bomb would go off and he'd been fighting Caro...maybe Caro had kept him there against his will.

Maybe his dad's death had been an accident after all.

He sat back as the ride continued down the dirt road.

There was a large noisy group walking. Americans. They gleamed in their tee-shirts and fancy kicks. A woman was leading and speaking English. Jed yelled at the biker to stop. He hopped out, paid and joined the group. They smiled and welcomed him and the leader kept talking.

"The convent was illegal for many years! But thanks to new rules, they can now operate out in the open. They even have a winery!"

She went on and on and Jed saw behind her, in the distance, the looming tower.

* * *

He'd done better today, graduating to a walker, actually. A beaten-up, old-fashioned walker once owned by an aged Irish missionary who lived her last days on the premises of _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia._ Todd could shuffle way better than he could yesterday. No falling and no crying today. He took a shower totally on his own this afternoon, navigating the tower room like a goddamn captain of a ship.

He collapsed on the wheelchair still in his room, legs spread, lounging. A throne of sorts Raquel had set up at the window where he could keep watch over things. He wore his sweats only, and he leaned back, hand on his chest, rubbing it unconsciously. He scanned the courtyard below and listened to the distant roar of the ocean. He turned at the chirping of the songbird. Watched her a while. Funny how he once thought he could hear words in her tunes. A low level grief thrummed at the loss of those words.

"You're just a… _bird_ … now." As usual, the word hung out at the door in his throat. That brain tic wasn't going anywhere.

He'd been dreaming of Téa in the morning, being cuddled by her, completely wrapped in her arms, naked, heated from sex that his brain had denied him. No memory of that part. She felt so good he raged when he woke up, furious at the sun and sea for ending the bliss. He refused to go down to breakfast. Refused to be carried down the stairs.

So he spent the day brooding and shuffling.

Raquel pushed open the door and smiled at the soapy scent in the room, at the towels on the bed.

" _All by yourself, you showered,"_ she said. The smile flitted away at the sight of his scowl however. She knew he'd been moody but this seemed more pointed.

" _What is wrong?"_

Glaring at her, he shrugged. "Fucking...life is wrong."

" _Get a shirt. We will practice the stairs."_

The idea! He immediately imagined falling down those stone steps. One flight and he'd be dead.

"No," he choked. "Are you trying to kill me?"

She laughed and sat on the bed, smoothing the linens. " _Yesterday morning you could move only a little. Today is a big difference. I believe your restricted movement is in your head. Your progression is about determination. Will."_

"Yeah, no. I want to fucking tear outta here and I fucking can't. Not in my..." He screwed up his mouth with a furious huff before finally saying, "...head!"

He turned at laughter carrying upwards through the windows. Light, pretty, womanly laughter. Tourists. He watched a roving group of men and women tour the perimeter of the dirt expanse, admiring the tower and sanctuary. They pointed in his direction, not at him, but at the tower in general. A woman lagged behind the others and laughed with a partner. Her voice hit him and gave him the shivers like icy Atlantic ocean spray. He practically hissed. He breathed and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead as if in pain. Delgado was too close to him, he could practically smell her sweat… in bed. That laugh reminded him of her.

And his imprisonment.

"Why do you help me?"

Cold eyes fell onto hers. Good question. Beatrice often asked it. Asked it without expecting an answer. Especially in the tough times when _Blanco_ was in pieces and Raquel was holding him like a child. She responded with a hard look. " _You do not know why?"_

"No. I don't deserve it."

" _You do not deserve such tenderness. That is true."_

"Why then?"

She rolled her eyes. How could he not know?

" _You have a debt to pay. I am here to make sure you do it."_

Her features softened at the end there, and she glanced downwards. Tears almost.

How could he not know...was right.

"Rico," he murmured.

She said nothing. Eyes down. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this. More laughter hit him. He didn't dream about _him._ Ever. Thought about him. But didn't dream of him.

"I left him money. If I'm…dead… they will have maybe distributed some of it. Do you understand?" He repeated his words in Spanish. _"I gave him money in my will."_ She still said nothing. She did not look at him. " _Have you...um... heard from him?"_ He stuck with Spanish so meaning would not be lost, asked haltingly, words being spit out. He didn't want to know.

She regained herself. Looked hard again at him. " _He left quickly after the bombing, after the police questioned him for hours. He was a sole witness to the finding of Téa."_

He rubbed his face. Of course. Fucking Juarez was in that hospital wanting to know what happened to her, why she died.

Raquel sniffed, a sharp hard sound. She was angry. Reminded. " _His small life changed in a single blast. New name, new history, new home. Everything he knew was a lie. Even you. We embraced and he left. I have not heard a single word. And I am a nobody to ask for him. I… did so little for him."_

He knew he didn't want to hear it. Her brief telling worked like a knife slitting his throat. He could hardly breathe with guilt over their last words in the hospital, guilt that he left Rico totally and utterly alone to face the cops over Téa and of course… a new world. Even his children had it better with Viki to care for them, with their house still there, a home still in place. Rico had nothing. Todd had had reason to stay alive and yet…

He threw it all away for retribution, abandoned Rico after he promised not to.

 _I will not die._

 _I will not abandon you._

Raquel would call Rico, _chiquito._ Little one. Tiny. But it sounded like "chick." Like a tiny fluffy yellow _chick_. She didn't know the truth though.

Beautiful, brilliant, kind, vulnerable Rico...

...a _monster_ in his own right.

God, he put Todd to shame in that department. A bombing was easy. Arranged. Someone else did it! He wanted to laugh. A mad crazy hyena laugh. Rico murdered Caro in his own unrecorded snuff film that he'd been writing for years. Ate Caro's heart in small little chick-like bites. Bite, bite, bite, until that bloody bit of muscle was gone. Slow, deliberate…bites and chews and swallows. Not to mention the careful sawing dismemberment. Body parts got left behind in a pile to rot in that locked basement.

 _Mí chiquito._

" _You loved him,"_ Todd said softly. " _You gave him real love for years. More than I gave him."_

She stood and looked at the lounging cat on the wheelchair. She'd not seen him do that since Havana. Stretched long legs, an elbow on the chair's arm, hunched slightly in the chair. Bare feet, bare chest… all that warring ink. Head back, light eyes so full of hate. If she didn't know his physical limitations, she'd step back. She'd be afraid he would spring at her in an instant. A shift had definitely occurred in him with his slight retaking of control over his body. Pedro Moreno would be shocked to see the difference. He had seen a broken body on a bed—not anymore.

 _Blanco_ was very much alive again.

" _Perhaps I should return home."_

That threw him. That humbled him. He straightened somewhat, his expression changing to something less cool, hate receding like a sea tide.

"No," he rasped, the child returning. "Please. Not until I'm well."

" _I have a life too, you know. Una paladar, a clinic, customers, patients…"_

"I know...but you can't leave. I need you."

 _Don't leave me, mama._

And tears came, real tears. Weakness roared through him, gutting him, crippling him. This was exactly who he was. The violent man who fought bloody fights in the Havana clubs, who'd then rest his head on her bosom and weep over lost love when he was drunk on the whiskey she'd bring him.

Raquel sighed and got close and held him once again.

" _My god, Blanco,"_ she huffed, " _…my god, how you operate, how you live and breathe._ "

After a minute of quiet assurance, she said, " _I will stay until you are well enough to go to Rico. I understand you must get to your family but I have a boy alone in that cruel America and I have to know he is well. Your money is nothing. It cannot buy him health or love. You used him for your own purposes…and_ that _brought his life crashing down. You swore love. You have to show me that love. You have to promise me."_

He nodded. A deal. An agreement. This… he understood. In exchange for Raquel's help, he would not let Rico be so alone. He would try to show the love he denied him. Love he told Rico that was real. Fine. He'd find Rico…

AND Téa.

AND his children.

And in all that… maybe there'd be a little redemption?

 **To be continued...**


	12. Chapter 12

**Note from author: So sorry for the delay! Took on a new job and it's really sucking up my creativity. Let me know if you're reading this... let me know you're still hanging on!**

 **Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 12**

 _I will stay until you are well enough to go to Rico. I understand you must get to your family but I have a boy alone in that cruel America and I have to know he is well. Your money is nothing. It cannot buy him health or love. You used him for your own purposes…and_ that _brought his life crashing down. You swore love. You have to show me that love. You have to promise me._

Once again, he heard laughter. The peels pierced the stinging haze of Raquel's words before she left and he glanced outside the tower's window. _Turistas Americanos_. English flew up at him and he chuffed with recognition, unconsciously caressing the wheel of his wheelchair-throne. In the wake of the deal he made with _La Doctora_ to find Rico _,_ he managed to stand and dress himself with these respectable day clothes, for the first time really. Standing as opposed to sitting. Strength suddenly there because… _Jesus_ … he had to get outta here.

Big accomplishment.

 _God, the things that matter these days._

He took in his tan linen pants, darker tunic-like shirt, and the simple leather sandals. Realized he rather looked like a monk. _El monje de la Misericordia._ The name of the convent, _Misericordia,_ meant _mercy_ except he heard _misery_. Way more apt.

 _A miserable monk._

He laughed bitterly, a sharp rough noise, then didn't. Too much quiet to find anything very funny. The quiet of the tower room forced memories to bubble up and fill the empty space. Regret followed, gut-twisting regret, for the wrongs he did as a teenager through college to the time when he was a fugitive from prison to Blair, to the newspaper, to Téa, to heroin… prison… MK…Havana and Rico, and everyone else and everything else through to the bombing. Huge list, Everest-sized list with him at the peak, gasping for air. Thin oxygen up in regretland.

 _Our weapons guy is givin' us trouble on the outside._

 _What's goin' on? Whatcha talkin' about?_

 _He got the ree-gret, hermano. And if he don't get off'a that cross, he gonna bleed out. Can't have the ree-grets to do what we do._

He scratched his head at hearing Rolon's voice in his head and rubbed his face, rough with growth. He definitely had a sick case of the _ree-grets._ Water dripped in the bathroom, the songbird moved back and forth in her cage, her claws scratching the bamboo rod. The ocean's waves splashed against the shore beyond the forest. _Too. Much. Quiet. Here._ That was the difference between now and then, and ghost-Rolon clearly didn't get it.

See, back in Statesville they had no time or quiet to regret the shit they did. You made decisions, one right after the other, _bam, bam, bam_ , like a train or a factory. _No ree-gret._ Clanging bars and yells and fights and negotiations and flesh-on-flesh slaps from fucking or jerking off and farts and burps and more yells made enough noise to block out all thought or reflection. And at night when the chaos would die down? Heroin would take over. And for him, he flew home. Like Rolon said, too much thought, too much looking back… and you'd die from the pain. Naaah… no time or quiet for any kinda _ree-gret_ in Statesville _._

Unlike now. Where a bird danced back and forth on a bamboo rod.

 _Scratch, scratch, scratch._

The tourists in the courtyard drew his attention again and he thought way back to the earliest crimes he committed. The high school bad acts. Rape. Assault. Drunkenness. Bullying. All-around asshole. A start of a long haul. He swallowed loudly, rubbing his short hair, touching the scar there, while a little girl played with the water in the courtyard fountain. Reminded him of Starr. She splashed and giggled at her frantic mother who scolded her from a few feet away. Now a _Misericordia_ sister went running, smiling, beaming, joining the fun. Mom decided to take a pic of the playful nun and her daughter, giving up on propriety.

 _Starr. Shorty. His angel who disowned him, who wrote and said, "I am going to college and I will make something of myself without you. I don't need you, I don't want you. Go to hell."_

Yeah… his bottomless pit of crimes. The ones he'd done in Chicago had taken place pretty much out of Peter's purview. But what didn't get past Peter was Todd becoming something of a big man on campus thanks to football...and his seeming prowess with women…

 _So you think you're a bigger man than me? Huh? You got girls calling the house and friends picking you up in their Mustangs for beers in the woods? You think you're a man now?_

 _Yeah, I do! I made the winning touchdown last night and now I'm famous! AND I'm headed to Llanview U. in August. You can't touch me today, DAD._

Todd had laughed in Peter's face. He couldn't remember the context for that little fight. Could have been over the letter he got, final confirmation of his acceptance at the university. They promised a full ride so long as he agreed to play football and keep up grades. In four or five months he'd be leaving Chicago forever. A slap on the side of his head was his reward for laughing at Peter that day, only he just laughed harder. The slaps got harder too. Got slapped until he was bent over and swearing he'd stop laughing but he couldn't. He just laughed and laughed…

 _I'm fucking famous!_

Funny how he could tell the laugh from the tourist was American. Well, not the laugh maybe but the trailing- _oh you're killing me, oh it hurts-_ part. He watched the group mill around and study the view, eyes in his direction. They couldn't see him, couldn't see the man in the tower. But he could see them.

 _Famous miserable monk. Full of ree-gret._

He remembered the poundings on the foothill field, how welcome getting rolled like that was. Deserving. He figured that was when pain as relief started. He'd run and try for the impossible end zone and players stopped him, brutal, no mercy because of course that was their moment to get a little revenge. And god it felt strangely good, the slam to the grass, the shaking of his insides, the boom to his chest and belly and head.

 _You're a mad man, Manning!_

Funny how pain did nothing for him now. Just made him cry. Question was… what did any of this mean? All these memories, no blank spaces, no more of the white coming to rescue him. He had no idea.

With a groan, he stood up and got to the walker he now used and shuffled across the room. Back and forth, back and forth. Him and the bird doin' a dance. _Scratch, scratch, scratch._ He let go at some point and shuffled unassisted like an old man, hunched over a bit, pain and strain throughout his back and legs. The sandals helped with the weird foot sensitivity. He could gripe at all of that but hey, _no wheelchair, mom!_ He smiled and ignored the sweat running down his back.

He finally just stood in the center of the room, making a growling sound he couldn't help with every exhalation because he was out of breath. Shuffling and standing took work. He closed his eyes and smelled the centuries old masonry and nuns habits and tropical humidity and palm trees dropping coconuts and the sea. And in that quiet, he could see _her_ clear as day. Her eyes. Her earrings. Her neck… her bare shoulders as she lay on her side in bed, naked.

Téa.

 _You snore… did you know that?  
_

 _Do I?_

 _You sound like a bear. Like this._

He smiled at the memory of her mocking him… then didn't. He didn't know he snored until she mentioned it. If he did, nobody told him. If he did… nobody DARED to tell him. Certainly not in college. Blair never mentioned it. A thought, a vague memory though irked him because it was just so fuzzy, about Starr and Lucía. Childlike teasing about him snoring. Tickles that followed. Laughter in a morning bed. Smiles from Téa.

In Havana, Rico had a similar conversation with him…

 _You really are a lion. You growl all night._

 _Fuck you._

 _Yes… come on, León. Fuck me. Fuck me now._

He couldn't quite look at Rico right now. Couldn't quite… _see…_ him. Raquel had tossed a huge pot of boiling guilt and regret about Rico at him and he was damn scalded. He preferred to look at Téa. He didn't feel less guilty or less regret but the wrong hadn't been as… _direct_... there at the end. He had most definitely drop-kicked Rico into the horizon. Cruelly with fully-formed mal-intent.

So yeah, there she was. Alive and sprawled before him in a Havana hotel room. The sea had infused itself into her hair and spread itself onto her skin and the growling stopped and instead a mewling cry came from him and _Jesus Christ_ how the fuck was he going to get home to her? How was he going to show up alive and not go straight to prison for the bombing? Forget finding Rico. He couldn't set foot in the great U.S. of A. at all! He'd get the death penalty, wouldn't he? Wasn't that likely? Thirteen people died. Would the government care they were evil bastards who deserved to die? That he cleansed the world of the worst on the planet?

He looked at the Savior on the wall, the doomed man's eyes drawn to the heavens above. Todd wasn't religious, _obviously_ , but he knew Jesus had given his life for the souls of _everyone_. Maybe that's what his punishment would be? Crucifiction for the souls of all the children who died at the hands of the thirteen and for those that wouldn't have to die, the future kids he saved thanks to the bombing. Absurd comparison.

Jesus was a decent guy...

 _Shuffle shuffle shuffle. Scratch scratch scratch._

He walked to the bathroom and then to the songbird and then to the door and out the door and to the edge of the stone steps. He'd go tumbling down if he tried them. Head first. Brains would spill and smear and redden them forever.

He managed to get back to the throne at the window right as one of the younger sisters walked in with a tray of sandwiches, a fruit salad, and a kettle of tea. She was pretty with her dark-almost-black hair and strangely mesmerizing large amber eyes that held his gaze a little too long. She smelled of the earth, femaleness… fresh-scented soap the sisters got from town and flowers from the garden.

He tilted his head towards her as she leaned forward and placed the tray on a table next to him, her warmth real and enticing. He couldn't stop looking at her. Her breasts were large and the white button-down shirt was open just enough to show the cross on the chain and it rested right at the beginnings of cleavage. The cross lay askew, stuck to moist mocha-colored skin. He licked his lips because he could practically taste her sweat, imagining her nipple in his mouth, pulling it taut, pulling it until she was panting and needing him to move inside of her. Move hard. Move in a way she wouldn't forget.

She blinked when she made the last adjustment to the tray on the table and she turned away and said softly some Spanish apology and he could not believe how eager his dick had become. Twitching even. He was seconds away from reaching into his pants and jerking himself like a circus monkey.

She paused at the door, her back to him. She wore work clothes, like Beatrice, like Raquel… the habit not hiding much of her silky locks. She turned to him finally and he knew the look he probably had on his face because she smiled and said, " _I am married to God. Yet here you are, looking at me like a hungry dog."_

" _I am... sorry."_

He dropped his gaze and lifted his knee so it rested on the wheelchair arm to hide his suddenly aching erection. He bit his lip and picked up the kettle of tea to pour. He shook with crazy restraint. If he was stronger, if he was less…caged…

If she was Téa…

Or not.

Images of pulling the sister's habit off, her pants, of her spreading her legs while on her back and him plunging into her ripped through him. He huffed with raw desire, a feeling he hadn't felt since Havana and he almost cried at this other kind of pain.

The sister returned to him and took the kettle from his trembling hand.

" _I forgive you. God forgives you."_

She poured the tea and added sugar she knew he liked and without skipping a beat said, _"If you need a prostitute to make your healing more palatable I can arrange for it. The sisters have been concerned for you, for your… health, since you woke."_

The shame choked him.

" _I am… not… a dog. I am fine."_

She nodded and added, " _I am not a virgin so you do not need to be embarrassed. We wondered when you might notice you were surrounded by beautiful women. This is a good sign. In truth."_

He took a sandwich and before he bit it he whispered, " _Please go away."_

She did and he dropped the sandwich back on the tray, hardly able to swallow the small bite he'd taken. He burned at his lack of control, at his complete inability to hide his thoughts. With horror, he realized that maybe this was part of the brain injury. Yeah, yeah. Had to be it. He shook his head… hopelessly… ashamed. He couldn't even explain it. Sex with anyone was way beyond his tolerance.

And out of nowhere, the old self-denial plan reared its head.

 _Celibacy_.

He was a monk. A miserable celibate monk. He should be punished for his sins. He should be in prison. Which he was. He should not be a part of regular life. Of human…life. He would find Rico just to assure Raquel, but he would not show his face. He'd see the family just to assure himself.

But he would not join them because his wrongs were unforgivable. All of them, from the original sin of being born through the Havana terrorism. He murdered thirteen. He was the fourteenth death. It needed to be that way.

He got to his feet. What he needed was to commit his life to the man himself… the man on the cross, on the wall. He needed to lie on his belly, arms out, and give his life to Him. He needed to get down the stairs to the Sanctuary.

 _Praise the Savior._

He'd find his family, Rico... and then disappear forever.

It was the only option.

* * *

Jedediah walked for a while into the tropical forest as the group headed to the winery but he backtracked, getting back into the shade of the sanctuary and tower. He walked the perimeter and then read the plaque in Spanish besides the heavy church doors, seeing the name of _San Pancracio_ , the saint beheaded at age 14 for his faith, the saint to children, the "one who holds everything." Not without a little irony, the expanse in front of the church doors and sanctuary did not hold everything but instead was quite empty: no benches or planters or pretty low-slung rock walls. Nothing but empty space and that plain stone fountain. The water trickled, the peaceful sound emphasizing the silence of the nunnery.

He moved into the sun and glanced up at the tower windows. Wondered where, if it was true, the sisters held Manuel Caro. He had no doubt _that_ was who Pedro Moreno protected. He could almost hear the guy breathing, lurking behind columns and palm trees. Lucky man to have his life while so many undeserving people, children, rotted. Cold comfort that the journalist, Ian, had been wrong. He sighed and rubbed the ache in his chest for his dead father that he knew would never go away for as long as he lived. Tears burned his eyes.

 _Fuck._

He knew he'd be grieving all over again when the hope disappeared. It was inevitable. Stupid fantasy. He fucking knew it.

Only one thing countered his Caro idea… Caro's name had been floated in the Cuban press, a spearing of him, the placement of him as the corrupted mastermind of the child trafficking ring. Jed had a hard time imagining these kind-seeming nuns housing a monster. Couldn't picture the young sister who played in the fountain with the little girl tending to such a pilloried criminal.

Unless they were forced into it. Finding Caro might be a relief to these women.

That happy nun though. Splashing and giggling. Not exactly acting like a victim of Moreno.

He shoved his hands into his shorts pockets and walked the path that ran around to the back of the church. The entire facility was a large "U," church at the bottom with barracks-like buildings on the two sides. To the right was the clinic. He saw a sign directing visitors to the side entrance.

 _La clínica médica._

He peeked in the windows and saw examining rooms with one or two patients and a row of beds and a few sisters who clearly acted like doctors or nurses or whatever. One older lady in her habit looked up at him and stared at him a second or two, a pointed-ness to her gaze like she caught a trespasser and he slid away. He then saw a kitchen and a dining hall. Nobody sat at the tables but there were a couple of sisters cooking.

A garden filled the back area, a massive colorful tropical plot where women who had to be nuns tilled and tended to the array of blossoms. A grey cat meowed and lounged nearby, swinging his tail.

Jed studied all the windows he saw, all the doors, all the possible places a man might hide. He stood for some time studying the tower. At the top appeared columns and it seemed like it could house a bell but he didn't see a bell. Below that were closed glass-paned windows, but he knew they opened because out front, he'd spotted similar windows… open. Could be rooms. Could be.

The winery lay some yards down through the forest, closer to the shoreline, maybe as much as a quarter of a mile from where he stood and it looked like a barn that could have more hidden spaces or rooms so he'd check that out later. He was about to turn when someone laughed behind him a distance away and called out a name… another sister running along a path with a dog, a black dog. They were gone before he could get a good look.

 _Whatever did happen to Abram?_

He lost track. Strange days after the bombing. They literally forgot about and lost poor Abram. He always felt bad about that. Hoped he was with good people. Certainly, he never left Cuba. Poetic, he supposed, with that ever present ache.

Jed sighed and made his way to the other barracks, the left side of the "U" where the sisters most likely lived. He saw sheer curtains and more than ten rooms that reminded him of dorm rooms sans decorations. Some rooms had single beds and some had two beds. Wooden crosses marked the plain walls, dressers sat without trinkets. He saw a woman in one of the rooms, through the shifting gossamer… braids piled high…gray… no habit. She was bent over and folding clothes…

He turned to continue his invasive tour and just in that moment, he realized she looked familiar. Yeah, yeah, from Havana. She looked like Raquel, _La Doctora._ It really looked like her but when he glanced back, she wasn't there. He brushed it off. Come on, what were the chances? Although at this point with all the crazy chance run-ins, anything was possible. Clothes still lay on the bed. Curtains wavered in a rising breeze off the ocean.

 _What are the chances it's her?_

He continued his walk back to the front of the sanctuary, shaking his head. The place wasn't all that mysterious. This sure seemed a good place, way too good for a monster like Caro. Exactly as a convent might be.

But then… nothing is ever as it seems.

 _Got that right._

* * *

Raquel pressed herself hard against the wall of the room, next to the window, heart racing. _Jedediah!_ Eyes wild and keeping still as death, she didn't know, couldn't imagine, why _Blanco's_ son walked the grounds. She froze with indecision, stuck between relief that _Blanco_ might be found and…dread.

She wasn't sure if this was good? Or very very bad.

She tore out of the room, down the corridor and slammed into Beatrice's office. Her sister glanced up from her papers and tilted her head, questioning. Glasses did not hide her typical judgmental expression.

" _What demon chased you in here?"_

Raquel shook her head, unsure of whether to come clean or let the fates determine what would happen next. The child was here. _Blanco_ might see him. _Blanco_ might finally come out of his exile.

Or would the law follow Jedediah? Could _Blanco_ be facing another imprisonment, or a death sentence for the bombing? She had no idea. She'd encouraged _Blanco_ to talk to Moreno to get a read but he hadn't done it yet. And she… definitely… had no clue what was happening in America regarding the bombing. The idea made her heart race with worry. She did not want him to go to prison.

Funny… she told him she only stayed to make sure he got to his feet and followed through on caring for Rico… but that wasn't true. Of course not. She had a soft spot for the man she knew from her cafe. The bundle of contradictions she'd grown to care about. To even love. But he didn't need her softness. He needed strength and tough positions. He always did better that way.

" _Tourists,"_ she panted, deciding on the fates. _"Americans."_

Beatrice shook her head and resumed her writing, _"Yes, a venture by Anna to sell more wine. They are capitalists… not demons."_

" _They are too free on the property."_

Now Beatrice leaned back. Eyes on Raquel's. _"You are concerned for Angel. He would not be recognized. No visitor could know him, even if they spotted him."_

Nodding, Raquel conceded the point. _"Is this going to be a repeat performance?"_

" _Maybe."_ Beatrice paused. _"You are rattled. Why?"_

Denial. " _Just surprised at so many… Americans."_

Raquel left the room and headed to the Sanctuary. Ran to the Sanctuary. She needed to get to _Blanco_ as soon as _—_

And ran smack into Jedediah Chant.

The two crashed into each other at the back door of the church. She gasped at the sight of him.

And he… he looked so much like his father. Dark suspicion and fury on his face.

"I knew it was you," Jed growled.

" _El hijo…"_

"Where is he… where is _Manuel Caro_?!"

His words hit her like a two by four to the side of her head.

" _Caro?"_

"Don't fuckin' lie to me. How much did it take for you to turn on Rico, on my dad… how much money did you get to cover for that sick asshole? Huh? How much did Moreno pay you? I oughta burn this place down."

Raquel blinked and tried to translate his hateful _Blanco_ -like words and picked up most. _My god,_ she thought, _he thinks we're hiding Manuel Caro!_ She almost laughed aloud. She swallowed it down. She'd laugh if it wasn't such a very dangerous misconception. She reached for his hand and he stepped back hard, disgust on his face.

"I'm right. You're hiding Caro. I can't—"

"No, no! No Caro!" In Spanish, she tried to explain… _"He is not here, I would never participate in such a vile act as protecting that bastard. No! For Rico, I would never!"_

She huffed, exasperated at his lack of Spanish. Desperate that he know they wouldn't let Caro near the convent. His eyes dropped to the blade at her waist. Eyes back up. Finger pointing.

"You're a liar, Raquel. Why else would you need a knife at a goddamn convent?"

* * *

He gripped the iron railing of the stairs, muscles straining and aching and his breath fast and noisy. God had gotten him onto that first flight of stone steps heading to the Sanctuary and the remembered tourists' laughter propelled him down the next.

" _Keep going, you asshole, do not stop,"_ he breathed.

His whole body trembled with effort and his hands sweated. He only had two more flights and then he'd be at the door behind the crucifix where he'd emerge into the cool peacefulness of the Sanctuary, into the colored sunlight shining through the greens, reds, blues and yellows of the windows, sunlight brightening the saints…

" _Almost there,"_ he huffed.

On the floor, he would lie on his belly, prostrate, where he'd swear fealty to God, to celibacy, to a hidden life forever. His family lost him. How could he make them lose him again? The more he thought about it, the more obvious it was. He'd be arrested, convicted… executed.

So this… was it.

 _Angel_ he would remain.

" _Todd Manning_ is dead."

He hit the last flight and glanced upwards.

"One more…"

* * *

The tension didn't end with Raquel's swearing on her own mother's soul that she was not protecting Caro. How could he think such a thing?

"I saw Pedro Moreno in town," Jed insisted, "I saw him come here. Why else would he be here?! He obviously has business! And that business is Caro! You are protecting MANUEL CARO!"

He yelled at the end. His voice banging against the pews, the paneling, the heavy air. His hatred for all things MK exploded out of him at that. God, god, he could kill Pedro Moreno for everything he had done to his father, to his family. And now, gasoline on fire, he hid Caro from the law, from a deserved killing.

Raquel sighed with sorrow.

" _Oh chiquito…"_

* * *

Todd slammed to a dead stop behind the door. He'd made it down. All the way. He hadn't broken his neck in a fall down the stone steps. He doubted he could get back up. His heart pounded in his chest, so much that he wasn't sure he heard what he thought he heard.

But he did hear it. That yell. Familiar _hate_. Familiar accusation. Familiar voice.

 _You are protecting MANUEL CARO!_

He stood as still as the saints in the windows. Listening. An argument. That voice again shot through the small space where the door wasn't flush with the door jamb.

"Why is he here?!"

And that cinched it. Todd gasped, rasping, "No… no… can't be…" The idea fired through him and he fell against the door. He didn't know what to do. He had to see if he was right. To hell with his plans. He had to know and nothing could stop him. Not a bone in his body, not a cell in his brain… nothing. Just like how his tears flew out, and physical desire radiated at whoever he chose, or anger at the kindest of people… he had no control.

He put his hand on the doorknob…

* * *

Beatrice came out of her office. She stood like a guard near the crucified Jesus, cool authority dripping off her, years of seeing human pain up close and personal making tears near-impossible. Her deep empathy appeared in her work… not on her person.

"Why are you screaming in God's house?"

A small part of Jedediah remained a boy and his eyes shot to the dramatic sorrow of the man on the cross and he sniffed hard, crossing his arms petulantly. He was surprised to hear English. With only a slight reduction in the level of hate roaring through him, he apologized.

"Sorry," he snapped, "but I need answers from Raquel."

"You know each other."

"Yeah," Jed snapped again, Raquel nodding.

The Mother Superior's gaze was steely, sharp eyes scanning his face and clothes and body. Evaluating him. Beatrice thought he looked awfully young and terribly, incredibly… similar to…

 _...Angel._

Raquel spoke up, " _Jedediah here… misunderstands my presence here. He saw Pedro Moreno and made assumptions."_

Beatrice moved towards Jedediah and sat down on one of the benches. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes a moment. A prayer.

"Sit and explain," she said.

"I am not leaving until I'm satisfied you are not hiding Manuel Caro. And no, I ain't gonna _sit_."

* * *

When he opened the door, it made a loud click and everyone in the Sanctuary turned to him. And at the sight of Jed, he knew his kid had come for him. Of course he did. Jed's hound dog of a self would never let that bombing set as an ending.

 _Holy...shit._

Todd Manning stood behind Jesus Christ, peering out from behind the tortured limbs of the savior. Hazel eyes gripped the shocked face of his son. With the help of nobody but God, he stepped forward onto the dais.

"Raquel isn't… _protecting_...Manuel Caro," he said in his scratchy rough voice that still hadn't regained its old power. "That motherfuckin' bastard… is dead."

Jed stood still, white as a ghost, his breath caught in his throat. His mouth dropped open and without any of his own doing, he collapsed to his knees. "Jesus… CHRIST…," he groaned, eyes on his father.

His… _father_.

All words left him, all purpose for being here at all left him. Why Cuba, why Baracoa, why anything? All he knew was that he was looking at a very-much-alive Todd Manning who just proclaimed Manuel Caro deceased. He shook his head because maybe he was hallucinating. Because those words were exactly what Jed might have imagined his dad saying. _The Mad King had just declared it so! That motherfucker! Dead, I say, dead!_

When he looked again, Todd still stood there, hand on a table a priest probably used for sermons or blessings or whatever Catholics do.

Raquel moved quickly to be his support. The two looked at each other, eyes hard and perplexed. Without words they both asked, _what now?_ Eyes answered just the same, _hell if I know._

Todd inched forward with Raquel's help and made it to the bench near Jed. Sitting heavily, he stared at his child in front of him who'd turned in place, just following him, there on the dusty ancient wood floor. _His son._ The toughest, smartest, most stubborn-ass kid he knew. Hound dog didn't come close to the persistence of Jedediah Chant. Beautiful goddamn boy. This kid had been _finding_ Todd from the depths of hell since Jed emerged from childhood. There was no place in this world he wouldn't go to get his father.

And here he was. _Goddamn_.

"How did you... _find…_ me?"

Jed was too stunned to answer, unable to stop staring at him. Todd looked so different with his nearly shaved hair, stubble, thin body in strange clothes, an expression of pain now. Relief at sitting.

" _You walked down the stairs?"_ Raquel asked.

" _All by myself, mama."_

Jed stood at last and just stared. Todd's eyes moved from Raquel's to Jed's.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Pops? Oh my god..." His voice broke at that and now tears came. "Dad…" Jed wiped his face hard to clear his vision because he needed to see, to stay seeing. All his nightmares, all his agony… _God, Téa! The kids! Starr!_

"You're alive," he choked. "How the hell are you alive? What the fuck?!"

"Long…" _The word, the word… what's the word?_ "...story."

"You're hurt."

"Yeah… you could say… that _. Fuckin' hell_."

Relieving familiar anger showed on his father's face, the frustration obvious, thick, and Jedediah found himself laughing. He was still his father. Todd Manning was still… Todd.

Jed threw himself at his dad at last, hugging him with all his strength. "Dad… god, oh my god…" Jed couldn't let go. Wouldn't. Arms tight, breaths desperate. Arms around him, crushing him against the wooden seat. "Dad… Dad…"

"It's okay, kiddo," Todd sighed, holding his kid in his own arms. "It's okay."

 _What now?_

 **To be continued….**


	13. Chapter 13

_Note from Author: Thanks everyone for your kindness in your continued reading of the story! Life is very strange at this time and funny enough, in my quarantined existence, Todd and his family came a little to life._

 **Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 13**

The offices were nearly ready for business. Téa strolled the new space, touring the floors, climbing stairs, and letting herself be surprised at every discovery. _As if._ She wore her silk Italian chic suit, the emerald green jacket and black spaghetti-leg slacks matching the black leather high-heeled boots. The cream-colored blouse fell open low, allowing a peek at the soft skin of her breasts...a careless showing of her body. She dared anyone to look. They didn't dare.

 _Eyes up here, cabron._

Certainly a metaphor lived in the blend of technological modernity and 18th century American farmhouse. The laptops and ergonomic chairs arrived today. The stylish antique-looking desks had arrived days before. The place bustled with workers. She stood now at the railing and looked down at the intricate wood flooring, seeming to be hundreds of feet beneath her. Locks of hair hung limply...silky strands aiming downwards. She peered to her side.

Where Todd's ghost stood next to her.

 _Todd._ Not _Blanco._ He was dressed in comfortable clothes, his favorite high-end sweatpants and a tee-shirt and expensive trainers, and his hair was messed from a windy day and he grinned with flushed skin because he'd been playing with the kids, breathlessly laughing at the miracle of them.

 _I never imagined myself a parent. I never knew how fun they'd be._

An awe-filled, thoughtful smile followed. Starr in his words. His eyes crinkled at the corners. A moment of pure joy. Love. They were on the patio and looking at the yard and the forest beyond. Lucia and Reese were giggling and pulling at him, trying to get him to play more.

 _Lemme talk to Mami… yeah, yeah… she'll come too. Just wait!_

Téa sighed and answered questions from the general contractor. Another week before the final move and they'd be jumpin'. The employees were looking forward to it. Home offices and leased corporate spaces were over and done with. They'd have a new headquarters. All ex-gang members drained from MK.

 _You destabilized the system._

She rolled her eyes and glanced at the ghost who chuckled and pulled his hair back.

 _Pizza tonight? And another viewing of Finding Nemo?_

She remembered the obsession Lucia had with the movie, how humorously perplexed she and Todd were at the repeats. Never tired of it. Always, every day, searching for lost Nemo. Finding him.

Téa straightened up from her hunched position on the railing. Checked her phone and paused as she was about to leave the ghost.

"I did find you. I had you in my hands. And then I lost you, _amor_ , in that ocean _."_

 _I lost you first. You slipped away. From me. Into the forever dark._

"Why weren't the children enough for you?"

 _Because I could never be enough for them. Not without you. Please forgive me._

Téa started to cry but stopped it. Shook her head and tightened her lips and found herself flying down the stairs, running…running so fast away from the most soul-cutting ghost. The one who could pull her to him with merely a look, who kept her at his side despite the other side of him. The beautiful man who always promised to emerge above and beyond the badness...

 _Him_.

At the impressive front door, she ran smack into her bodyguards waiting for her on the front porch. She shook her head at their innocent eagerness. Waiting for orders.

"All right," she sighed. "Take me to the office on the boulevard."

She sashayed her way to the sleek black car awaiting her. Slipping in, she felt the other ghost already there, cool against the leather, flashing a smile that was anything but innocent. No love of his children here. She felt his energy… _Blanco._

 _Who you goin' after today, Delgado, in them lawyer boots o'yours, that firepower in yo' bag?_

"Anyone in my way," she whispered, tucking hair behind her ears, putting sunglasses on.

And she heard him chuckle softly as he lit a cigarette, the click of the lighter and resulting bloom of the flame filling the back of the car, his black clothes shadowy and dusty with the grit of city streets.

 _That's my girl. Fuck 'em._

* * *

He couldn't take his eyes off his son once they separated, once the bear hug ended. Words were caught in his throat, too many wanting to rush forth through the small tunnel of his throat and he suddenly remembered bottleneck traffic in Chicago, remembered gazing out a backseat window of his father's Cadillac. A car that young Todd loved like crazy and fantasized about. A car he'd never own, that was caught way back in time, forever.

God, Jedediah was beautiful. Like that car. So beautiful it hurt.

 _What took you so long?_

Jed held his father by his shoulders. He gave him a gruff shake, his hazel-colored eyes checking him all over. "You're alive, you're real, here." he murmured as he took in the whole picture of his monkish father in front of him. An absolute miracle of miracles, though a bit worse for wear. He saw that his Pops had been through something. It showed physically in his thinness, the way he had walked to the pew, but mostly it showed in the wary expression on his face.

And he _was_ wary. Todd returned an equally intense study of his long-haired son, taking _him_ in, absorbing the very existence of his kid. From dreams to this. He flashed a pained smile, wishing he could be as relieved at being found alive in the same way Jed was. But… monsters lurked beyond the church doors.

 _Alive. Real. Here._

"I can't believe I'm looking at you," Jed said, in punctuation, before letting his father go. Then with a tone of reverence, import, he added, "This changes everything. The world has shifted."

Todd blinked and immediately glanced to the side, getting a glimmer of Raquel sitting next to him. She massaged his hand, his arm, a therapeutic working of his bones and muscles, an act the sisters had been doing since he was nothing but a body on a bed. He pulled away from her, shaking her off. She understood. She shifted on the bench, eyes on him. Cool and curious. Beatrice sat at another bench not too far away. The Mother Superior wore her seriousness like armor as usual, mouth set in a firm line, grey eyes on him. Hard to tell what rolled about in that sisterly, Godly mind of hers. He landed back on Jed.

 _Changes everything?_

"Does it?" Todd said in a raspy voice, harsher-sounding than he intended. In the unintentional fury though, lay his sense of being lost forever in Cuba, the conviction that had brought him down the stairs from the tower room, that had driven him to want to lie at the feet of the Savior on the wall. He knew _why_ things weren't that different despite being found by Jed, knew it well. What choice did he have?

 _Monsters, monsters..._

But as soon as he saw Jed's double-take, he realized, stupidly, that of course Jed couldn't know the _why_ and in not knowing he had put very old history onto the words: Todd was hiding from his family on purpose, another suicide, heroin maybe, anything to avoid love.

He opened his mouth to argue, to tell a different story, except his fevered desire to explain what he meant yanked the needed words into the quicksand of his broken brain. Nothing but a soft grunt escaped his lips.

 _Wait wait wait there's so much to say!_

Jed popped up, getting to his feet with an infuriated huff and stepping away hard. Todd reached for him to cool the sudden fire but gave up the effort. Jed was in too much shock, no space in his head to be soothed.

"Ohhhh Jesus CHRIST, you're broken alright, I see it, but you're still _you_." He made a fist and punched the air, insisting, fighting as he always had. He barked a clipped yell.

Todd sat back, grunting again in frustration like some kinda Frankenstein and rubbing his spiky hair again, a tic of a sort whenever things got… _difficult_.

He felt Raquel's warmth and heard her whisper, _"Tranquilo, mí chico, tranquilo."_

But he couldn't calm either. He was as resistant to it as his son. Too much shock. Too loud the truth. Too much to say.

 _God fucking damn it._

"Jed...please…" he managed to choke out but… what do they say? Jed's mad horse was out of the barn.

" _Dad!_ YES things have CHANGED! You're _alive_! Do you know you have a _family_ grieving you?! Do you know what this means? What a miracle it is?! Who ever is dead... then ISN'T?! Death is always the last door but not for you! POPS! DAD! YES, things have changed! You can't hide in Cuba anymore! That game is...over!"

His voice bounced off the rafters and shook the pews. And it also smashed into Todd and he could barely control the sudden wish to fall into childlike sobs that never seemed far from him anymore.

"Jedediah…," he said again but his kid couldn't hear him.

Jed laughed again and gritted his teeth, pacing now, waving his hand in disbelief that _things hadn't changed…_

Todd turned slightly away, unable to take the disappointment because Jed didn't understand. No, things hadn't changed. Everything was exactly the same.

"Oh Pops… come on, come ON," Jed groaned from feet away, pacing like an animal.

 _No choice in this… no choice. Gonna lie down before the Savior, arms spread, giving up everything, giving up my life to Him like the sisters, like hundreds of years of monks before him..._

His thoughts ended though when Jed threw out their names like daggers.

"Reese fights enemies in the forest with a playsword, determined to win a war he can't understand, doesn't understand, and Lucia is quiet and cries in her bed at night and then marches through her days like nothing is wrong and she looks at me with questions she's not old enough to formulate, _accusations_ , because I was in Havana and she is wondering why couldn't I save you! And Espie… Jesus, that girl. She is vicious in her hate of the world. Dad… she RAGES… only really stopping for—

"Téa," Todd said softly.

"Yeah. Exactly. And Starr? She's defying you. Loving you despite your total abandonment of her… and constantly promising she's gonna make you proud… but she's lost, doesn't know where to turn, doesn't know who she is without you to fight against."

 _Yeah, such love in those lethal names._

The rant tore through Todd worse than Jed's innocent anger and all he could do was scratch at his chest, rub the stabbing pain because he hurt physically at that _love_ , at the daggers piercing his heart _._ Eyes back on the Savior.

" _I know,"_ he murmured in Spanish.

 _Musta hurt, getting crucified the way He did, nails through body parts, hanging on a cross in a blistering sun. Musta been agony._

He tasted salt on his lips, realizing, understanding, that Téa's handling of her grief was conspicuously absent from the rant. He didn't dare ask. That was a bridge too far. There was a reason Jed kept her masked.

"And you?" Todd asked instead. "Fighting… crying…or...?"

Jed sighed and pulled back his hair… "All of the above. Swords in the forest, crying at night, acting like nothing is wrong. And full'a hate. Every day I hope you'll be proud o'me."

Todd groaned softly, inwardly. Bleeding out. Those last words were said in the most cutting way. _Proud of the hate._ He glanced at Raquel and she gave him a "he's not wrong" motherly look while wiping his cheek of tears he couldn't stop. He fought leaning into her, fought the mad compulsion to crawl all over her and cling to her because sorrow and regret were actively strangling him and she had become his mother despite her Rico-avariciousness. Todd aches for his poor family… his children. _Mis hijos._ The wreckage he created was poison on the daggers Jed served up.

 _Jesus Christ, what now what now what now? Tell me what to do, mama._

To Todd's shock, Jed got right in front of him, inches from the tips of the monkish sandals. Eyes down on him. All the hate had suddenly vanished. Todd looked up, pleadingly, tears brimming.

"Talk to me, Pops. I love you so much… so talk to me. Explain it. Why doesn't THIS change things? What do you mean? Why don't you wanna come home to us?"

Todd swallowed visibly, mouth twisting, a shaky breath following. In a different place, in a different time, he would have laughed as derisively at the question as Jed had only moments ago, laughed at Jed suddenly switching gears, laughed that Jed had the gall to question what to him was so goddamn obvious. He didn't though.

"You don't… understand," he said softly.

 _God god god…I am in hell. I am being punished for my sins. But in turn, You punish them. So fuck...You. Just… fuck You for keeping me alive. For allowing me to be found._

"Try me, Pops, _please._ "

Todd desperately wanted to give him the plain truth. _Prison for a bombing_ , he wanted to say, but still nothing came out because that wasn't exactly it. It wasn't that simple. He huffed and rubbed his spiky hair. How could he explain so much when so many words got trapped in a train's tunnel, a metro smashed… bottlenecked at the exit into the light?

"Dad?"

Beatrice interrupted at that impasse. It was clear _Angel_ was too distraught to defend himself and his son needed answers that could not yet be given.

"Child," she said, moving towards the pew, sharp eyes on Jed, "rejoice in finding your father alive… for now. No decisions, no actions, no reaction other than joy, not now. He regained consciousness quite recently, less than a month ago. He is not fully himself yet so he cannot make life choices now, cannot fully process all your presence entails. Do you see?"

Jed lingered on his father, Todd's reddened eyes on his own. The sorrow on his face was deep and weighted and looked like an ancient kind of pain, like every bad thing that had ever happened to him had etched itself onto his skin.

"Dad," Jed whispered, feeling Todd's hand on his. He sniffled at the unusual touch, a touch he would have died for at one time. His father's silence was maddening. He turned to the Mother Superior.

"What do you mean 'a month?"

"Your father was brought to us near death and did not wake up for nearly six months-"

"A coma."

"Yes. He underwent numerous surgeries to save his life. And he stayed asleep afterwards. It was a rough awakening. Slow to learn where he was, what had transpired. He needs time."

Jed seemed to settle into that, seeming to grasp the gravity of what might have happened to him. He looked at Raquel who began to smooth Todd's arm and hand again. Back and forth, back and forth, her hand moving in a gentle sweep. Her eyes were downcast and her features drawn. He remembered how mad she was at him in the hospital, frantic with worry for Rico when he'd disappeared, and yet… she tended to him now. How she got here was an interesting question that needed an answer. There was a lot to learn.

 _Okay. Cool your tits, Chant._

Jed sat down next to him once more, asking, "You said you were hurt. How?"

Todd wanted to lie. Wanted to pretend ignorance. His brain didn't let him. The truth shot out before he could stop it.

"A house… uh...fell on me."

"In the explosion."

He nodded in agreement, grimly, seeing the full awareness shade his son's eyes.

"God, Dad…" He avoided asking the direct question of whether he was responsible for it. Jed didn't want to know. He wasn't ready to know.

Beatrice offered details, "Skull fracture, hip, ribs, leg… all his left side… broken. His insides too. Broken. That he is alive, awake, is a miracle, as you say."

Todd then tried to explain more. "W-Words," he said. "I have... _trouble..._ saying what I want _._ And walking—I have to learn again. And my memory…is …" He paused, licked his lips and blinked before finishing with, "strange."

"What's wrong with your memory?"

"Nothing… _wrong…_ just _strange_. Like a dream… distant."

He sighed at the loop of his life that played in his head. It wasn't just strange, it was _constant_. A cruel irony. Where before he couldn't remember certain things, now he couldn't forget them. The film never stopped. It was all he could do to escape and only sleep afforded him relief. But the strangest part was the impact of the memories. Everything was… buffered. He didn't feel any of it in quite the same way anymore. No heroin calls to him, no phantom pain firing up inside of him, no ghosts in the corners of rooms, at his feet, or even in dreams. No, just the real stuff—real, actual fucking pain that he had no love for whatsoever. And the monsters? Not ghosts… but real live ones. MK, Pedro, prison, people out to finish him off for real...

And himself.

 _The. Biggest. Monster._

This he knew. The heart of the need to stay hidden. To erase Todd Manning. To correct the mistake of his having survived short of suicide.

 _Real. Alive. Here. A monster I can never escape. The last I can do is spare you._

He smiled sadly and then didn't. And before Jed could say a word, Todd pulled him into his arms and squeezed him tightly.

 _Tight, tight, tight. I won't let go of you. I'll keep you from flying apart._

Todd murmured in his son's ear the explanation that had come to him earlier but wasn't exactly _everything_. "Prison for a bombing," he said, "Or worse. I can't do it… not for me… but for you, Reese, Lucia, Starr...Téa. Another death? Another loss? I can't do it… to them. Might as well… _stay_... dead."

Jed could hardly breathe for the strength in the hug, for the desperate vice-like grip. And in that…

...he smiled, almost laughed aloud, peals that would rival a convent's bell. Ohhh that fierce hug gave Jed life despite the words he heard. _Hope._ In his arms, he felt his father's relentless power, an old fire that spoke of his sheer will to live despite a world determined to kill him. Despite his own instinct to simply lie down and die.

Way back, Jed remembered a moment in the dark when he was supposed to be sleeping on a ratty couch in a ratty motel room meant for nothing but the escape of heroin except he wasn't asleep and through a night's haze he saw Todd and Brandy on the bed hugging in their sleep, a hug that said they were terrified of an impending apocalypse and Jed had to wonder… if his dad was so _dead,_ as he insisted he was back then _…_ why was he so _fucking_ afraid?

Jed knew this song. He had heard it before. Countless times. Things _hadn't_ changed, had they? His dad just needed a little time like the old nun said. Over his dad's shoulder, he gazed at Raquel. And she gave him a small grin. An awareness.

 _Okay, Pops, game on._

When they separated, they still held each other and Jed nodded in a pretense of understanding. He knew what Todd meant; he was being truthful. He didn't want to torture his family any more by returning to the U.S. only to end up dying in prison. Something in his voice said there was more but this would have to be enough for now.

Because his own father did not realize it was all a lie. He just needed to get on board with THAT truth.

He _was_ coming home. There was no way he'd become an actual _monk._

"One day at a time," Jed said. All the calm he couldn't do earlier flowing over him. "Let's get you better, Pops. Then you can tell me about staying dead."

Just at that moment, they all heard a pounding at the front door. From outside, Anna yelled in Spanish, _"Open the door, Mother! Guests are here!"_

Beatrice moved quickly to the front because the way Anna had said "guests" told everyone in the know that this affected Todd. She unlocked the heavy doors to the Sanctuary and ushered Anna inside, locking the doors again. Right away, the skittering noise of claws on the wooden floor announced Abram as he ran in and Jed laughed and patted the missing dog who wagged his tail and panted in that funny pit bull smile at seeing Jed and his person at the same time.

"Hey pup!" Another reunion. "Wondered where the hell you got off to."

"Raquel had him," Todd said, reaching for the dog, gratefully letting him lick and love him. Jed didn't miss the dependence.

Beatrice stepped in front of Todd, "Pedro Moreno is here."

Todd eyed his son who reacted visibly to the news.

"What?" he asked Jed.

"He won't be alone," Jed explained. "He's got a reporter on his tail who's pretty sure you're here, alive. It's how I found you."

That was a lot. And yeah, their faces said he needed to say a whole lot more but there was no time.

"I will make sure then only Pedro is allowed inside the Sanctuary," Beatrice said firmly, helping Raquel pull Todd to his feet. Jed eased himself next to Todd, allowing him to use his shoulders to stay on his feet.

"I'll help you, Dad."

Todd couldn't absorb the enormity of those words, didn't want to. There was too much history in them, the film in his head flipping to memories relating to all the _help_ his child gave him, so much help that it damaged Jed, and he just nodded.

Then in Spanish, to Raquel as they made their way to the secret door that gave them access to the stairs, he said in no specific tone, just his purely raspy voice, _"I need the knife… I need it."_

" _I know, Blanco. I will give it to you. Up the steps, chiquito. We have a long way to go."_

* * *

 _Pedro Moreno_ had noticed the reporter when it was too late to turn back. He realized the young man with the dark hair had been following him in town. He had no idea who he could be but then guessed he was either a newspaper man or a private detective. He did not look the sort to be any kind of gang or police. He lacked gruffness, meanness, looked more like a teenager in college with the neat clothes and energetic walk. The little notebook he scribbled in reeked of unofficial work. Something off the sanctioned books. He didn't look like he carried any weapons. No jacket to cover a gun. No boots to hide a knife.

He'd sent his lawyer home today. He had heard enough of what was happening with Téa Delgado and her draining of MK. It killed him. And the move was _literally_ killing young people in the region. She had created a potent imbalance, a storm. He couldn't take it. _Los Muertos_ had risen in the void created by MK's absence.

In previous years, he'd have ripped the head off Téa. He'd have learned who she was and knocked her off her throne. Then he'd have sent loyalists to threaten the deserters and forced them back home.

Pedro was too tired, too gutted for it.

In the meantime, he needed to shake off the reporter. He figured he'd make a spectacle in the Sanctuary. Figured that was better than running. He'd warn the sisters to make sure _Blanco_ was safe and hidden.

He banged on the locked door of the Sanctuary, surprised at its being locked in the middle of the day. He was even more surprised to see the Mother Superior open it for him. His heart jumped.

"What's happened? Is my son alright?"

"Yes, come in. Quickly. He wants to speak with you."

"There is a man—"

"We know. Come. Up the stairs."

He followed her in, the door slamming shut and locking once more. The reporter or the detective remained most likely by the fountain outside. Pedro was surprisingly nervous. He had not faced _Blanco_ yet, not seen the anger up close, personal. He was not sure what to say as they hurried up the many steps. He was impatient to know what prompted the switch in attitude. He was glad and worried. When he entered the room, he had to grab the door jamb.

"Jedediah," he croaked.

The cover was blown. Everything was over. All the protection had clearly come to an end. And in that, Pedro Moreno felt a great yawning sadness, not unlike the day he saw _Blanco_ covered by a tarp, an announcement he was gone. The world had arrived… and it was such an unpredictable and uncontrollable world.

At the same time, however, Pedro could not deny the sight of his son took his breath away, apart from their harsh reality. Apart from the obvious recuperative state he was still in.

Todd sat on the wheelchair at the window but not like an invalid might sit. He lounged like the lion Rico called him. He sat low, long legs stretched out in front of him. He held a blade in his hands, resting it on his lap. His face was hard, stubble darkening his jaw. He breathed slowly and calmly.

And his eyes... they were terribly bright with a threat Pedro had not seen since _La Habana._ That damn dog was at his feet, black, like a devil, quiet but not relaxed.

Pedro should have been afraid but he wasn't. He was at peace with whatever punishment _Blanco_ would see fit to issue. Justice demanded it - after all, he had helped Manuel Caro murder young children, had helped build a massive child trafficking operation. There was no making up for that. Not to mention the direct harm Caro had inflicted on _Blanco_ and his lover, Rico. He almost got to his knees in penance. Almost offered that heart of his. He smiled and breathed, "My son. You are getting better."

Jedediah stood next to his father, leaning on the window sill with his arms crossed. He had his head turned, unconcerned about Pedro. He watched the courtyard for Ian Correa. He spotted him at the fountain, sitting and watching. Eyes up at one point on the window but nothing serious. Jedediah knew they were high enough, far away enough. Ian couldn't see a thing.

Raquel sat like a wise owl on the bed, sharp critical eyes on Pedro.

"Jed says you have brought a-" Todd paused and then spat, " a reporter. Did you know he followed you here?"

"No! No, I had no idea… so he's a reporter. I wasn't sure. I did see him. Noticed him."

"So you came… inside the church… _knowing_?"

Pedro waved his hand, shaking his head, "No, no…it was too late by the time I figured out he was following me. I decided it was best to get inside, to warn you. I would not hurt you that way."

The silence that followed was heavy, thick. Pedro understood nobody had reason to believe a word he said. He eyed Todd, _Blanco,_ and turned to Jedediah at the window. asked, "Who is he?"

Jedediah turned and decided to lay it all out. The entire story. Pedro paced as he listened. Jed stopped at the truth of Ian Correa — the disappearance of his cousin, Ivan.

Todd shrugged, fingering the blade now, eyes still on Pedro. He had been so emotional in the Sanctuary, weak with injury, devastated at the pain he knew he was causing Jedediah...but the moment he heard footsteps on the stairs, he radically changed.

With the rising sound of Pedro coming up the stairs, Todd grew increasingly furious at the circumstances of being here at the convent, furious at how patient Jed had been as he carried his weight upwards to the tower room, furious at seeing the wheelchair and being so fucking glad to sit again. Hate had inched its way out slowly like lava and he groaned mutedly at the burn of it as he took his place at the window. He had shaken off the help and, once seated, silently held his hand out for Raquel to give him the knife. He had adjusted himself on the chair, knowing he needed to be strong to face Pedro, knowing he had to FAKE being strong. He stared at the doorway, unmoving like a statue, until the man himself graced it.

Jedediah had watched the entire transformation… and knew he hadn't been wrong about the power in his hug. Beatrice hadn't been wrong either. He needed time and when he was ready, he was gonna take the thorny crown that Pedro had given him… and shove it up the world's ass.

How easy it was for his father to become _Blanco,_ the Mad King.

From grief to hate. _One, two, three._ Easy. Those clothes didn't look monkish anymore. They looked like clothing to hide an animal. Jed had to control the relieved grin on his face. Never had he thought that hate might actually serve a useful purpose. And if anyone needed his hate, Téa did.

Todd and _Blanco…_ they needed to save Téa from herself.

"Ian isn't just here as a reporter," Jed said. Everyone looked at him now. "His reason for wanting to find you… can't be shared openly."

Todd's gaze flew to Beatrice. Raquel knew everything but not the Mother. She seemed to understand that and she walked to her _Angel_.

"You are loved," she said. "Do not forget _love_."

Jed realized in her words that she knew Todd well. He was glad for it. She would probably be a grounding force in his effort to get his father out of the convent and back home.

With that, she took Raquel by the elbow and urged her out the door. She shut the door and Todd realized it was the first time it had ever been closed. This… was a new chapter now.

He turned to Jed and asked, "Why is he... following Pedro?"

"To find _you_ ," Jed said, "because he believes you murdered his cousin, Ivan. Did you, Pops? Is he right?"

Pedro and Todd said nothing, but their faces betrayed the truth. Todd grunted and ran a hand hard from his eyes to his scruffy chin and jaw. Then his hair. Then he brooded without looking at Jed. Pedro shook his head and joined Jedediah at the window, looking out at the courtyard. Ian has disappeared from view.

"I executed him," Pedro said quietly. "I strangled him and dumped him into the sea. Manuel and I both sent him into the arms of the ocean's."

At the other window, Todd narrowed his eyes and bit his tongue. Just like with everything else, he had so little control over his instincts and wanted to correct the record. Wanted to scribble onto his rap sheet… _murdered Ivan, child rapist, with a pillow. It excited me. I rubbed my body on his until…_

Pedro interrupted the thought by placing a hand on Todd's shoulder, warm coffee-colored eyes on his light ones.

"I did it, my son. That is all the reporter needs to know."

Todd turned away and shrugged Pedro's hand off him like a petulant teenager, like he'd seen Jed and Starr do hundreds of times. Pedro's confession confused him. A sacrifice. _Take my beating heart._

"He's a reporter," Todd said. "He'll report you."

"There's no proof… even if—"

"Of course." Todd closed his eyes a moment… "No proof. No risk. Not much of a sacrifice..."

Pedro stood straight now, head shaking, "No, no… _Blanco."_ In Spanish he argued, " _I meant my words so long ago. I give my cut-out heart to you. I give my loyalty to you. I am taking Ivan. That is on me."_

Todd chuffed at Pedro's words, Caro's body coming into his head, the sight of Rico sitting naked next to him and eating delicately the heart of Caro. But Ivan lurked there, too. recollections of his vile acts against the little girl in that house, Elon's cheers turning to horrified pleas for him to stop. Todd eyed the songbird. Fluffy and tap dancing on the bamboo rod.

 _How can you love a monster, little bird? How can you cry for your lost love who deserves to be dead?_

Words escaped him. Caught in the tunnel. Bottlenecked. Todd wiped at his face, feeling tears again, goddamn it. God. Damn. He didn't even know why he cried. Sorrow. The permanent end that he could ever be what he had so wanted to be for his family. A good person.

"It's okay, Dad, really. Let's get you well. Then we deal with the reporter. He's not going to find you. I promise you. And… you're not going to prison. Cuba erased you from the investigation. FBI hasn't but… at this point, it's unlikely."

"Lots of different prisons, different...deaths." The show of strength ended. He wanted to lie down, to let sleep protect him. To let the dark fall and cover him in its blackness.

The sun pouring into the room shifted, cloud cover crossing the sky.

 **To be continued...**


	14. Chapter 14

_**Note from Author:**_ _Thank you for being so patient! I appreciate your beautiful comments, Edgefire, Tessa, and Tessaray! Bless you all my other shy readers! I have to say... I can't wait to get Todd home. LOL_

 _Stay safe, everyone._

 **Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 14**

The songbird held Todd's attention, singing her sorrowful tune while Jed talked details of the FBI investigation, the state's efforts to dig into the "death" of Todd, and Bo Buchanan's low-key, unsaid belief that something was wrong with the Cuban story. Clearly, in hindsight, Bo had been pushing the idea that Todd very well could be alive.

"He knew it," Jed said quietly. "Wouldn't say it outright but he wanted me specifically to come here." Conversation continued, the words blending, swirling, rolling like water in a brook… _babbling._

Todd shut his eyes, covering them with his hand, fingertips scraping his brows. He breathed in time with the arhythmic notes. The news wasn't positive exactly, prison still loomed and Buchanan probably was hot to get him there. So the question remained.

 _How to get home? Will I ever get home? What now what now what now…_

He stole a good long look at the old man who looked much older, more ragged than the monster in his constant memory. Pedro wore the traditional _guayabera_ , a dark blue with delicate embroidery of the same color, khaki pants, and monkish leather sandals not unlike his own. Dust from what must be the dirt road here from the town fringed brownish toes. He sat on the bed, bent, wide hard hands on his knees, face war-weary and unshaven. This man had done so much wrong…

When Pedro met Todd's studying gaze, the man straightened and leaned in his direction, wanting to engage but Todd's own expression darkened at the man's effort and Pedro backed off, Todd slipping back to the songbird. The hate bubbled in the center of his chest, slow, popping, black bubbles. Like boiling mud. He caressed the blade still in his hand, a thumb rubbing the wooden handle. The hate was familiar and it was as much a part of the tapestry surrounding him as the bird's music.

 _You saved me, but only after you destroyed me. Destroyed everything. You helped nurture the monster inside of me, fed him, built him up to the death of… everything._

 _Kapow!_

Todd tilted his head and eyed the bird dancing on the bamboo perch. She had been his intimate company for months. He didn't remember things that took place while he slept over those six months but he knew the bird. Had a sense of time passing here in this Rapunzel-tower room. The men's voices continued in a low murmur and it eased him gently into the cave, a paltry mimic of the white emptiness he now realized he had once loved. Everything inside settled, ancient black hate receding, a tide he knew would rise again. He closed his eyes and floated in the warm water of darkness and memories and remembered a time he did not despise Pedro.

The man had been a kind of father, offering trust, faith, and a willingness to hand over leadership when succession in every other organization was done by regicide. Todd had gained something like.. _love..._ in a place he never expected. That was the truth. He protected Pedro because he had become family, kicks to the head, sexual abuse, power games, unyielding captivity, the whole goddamn enchilada.

Pedro…Peter.

Dr. Graham had caught that little similarity way back, before Cuba ever happened. Pedro had beat the holy hell out of him for being high on heroin. Which he had been. It landed him in the lock-down ward.

 _A sixty-five-year-old man stood over you and kicked the hell out of you... and you... YOU, Todd Manning... did nothing. Why? Since when don't you defend yourself against a man named PETER?_

 _He's family. I couldn't fight him._

Roiling hate lessened, he came back into the present and immediately noticed the talking had ended. Pedro stood at the window now, mere inches from Todd, close enough for Todd to smell the remnants of earthy sweat, and Jed leaned against the closed tower-room door. His hands were shoved into his pockets and he hunched like a teenager.

They patiently waited.

Todd frowned and took a needed breath so he could ask the thing he didn't want to ask but knew he had to.

In Spanish, he asked, " _Tell me about Téa."_ In Spanish because in English the query was too raw on his tongue, too real.

Both men glanced at him, and then at each other, and then at the floor.

"Just tell me," Todd griped sharply as Pedro moved back to the bed, to sit, nodding, seeming to evaluate how to tell his story. Funny how Jed didn't jump in. His report clearly depended on what Pedro said. Todd focused on Jed who quickly looked away.

 _Fuck._

The old man suddenly smiled, a sad one, eyes reddening. "To tell you about Téa means you must be patient. Listen."

Todd flashed a look of confusion and huffed in rebellious impatience.

Pedro raised his hand, trying to appease his son's still-present temper in the wheelchair at the window, afternoon light golden and warning him. The shadows from rain clouds had passed and _Blanco's_ skin was near-luminous. He was touched by God, wasn't he? He was such a miracle of survival, no? Pedro couldn't control the tears of relief that welled and he couldn't even say why. How did this man dig into his mind and heart so deeply? Even more than his own children? Why?

"Téa needed to rebuild her life, my son, needed a repository for her grief at the loss of you. So while you slept she built a company. _Method Makers, Inc._ While you slept, she pulled MK men off the streets and into her offices. A marijuana enterprise. Legal… from top to bottom."

Todd shook his head, unable to picture this… _company…_ smoothing his inches-long hair thoughtlessly. _Marijuana?_ Téa hated weed because of how it crippled Jed back in the day. Strange. He dragged his gaze to Jed as if the boy could confirm or deny the story and found cool light eyes on his. A stone sat in the pit of his belly at the lack of reaction. A confirmation then.

"And?" he asked, his voice strained, sounding like a rub of sandpaper on a boat run aground.

"My beloved MK has rolled over onto its back at her feet, belly up, like a starved street dog." He chuckled. "Those who didn't defect, fled like _rats_."

"So MK is…"

"Either dead or in a coma," Jed said quietly.

"But Téa…?" Todd grunted in aggravation, unable to grasp what this story was. _What what what?_ "She is not…doing _our_ business… _MK_ business."

"No," Pedro clarified. "As Jedediah says, MK is not in operation. The bulk of our men work for her, along with wives… _partners._ Legitimate, legal. They are owning an industry that once caused their incarceration."

"So no MK…," Todd murmured, chewing on his lip, lost again as he walked Sixteenth Street late into the night, Brandy's memory following him, heroin in his blood, prison draping his shoulders like a cape… but no hero's cape.

 _Thank you for meeting me, Blanco._

 _Didn't do it for you._

 _Heh, but you left your children, your wife, her bed... for un tête-à-tête. Conmigo. Heh heh..._

 _Fuck you, G… get to it._

 _I wanna payoff. You wanna keep MK large and in charge—_

 _The only payoff you gonna get is your fuckin' life. We see you dealing in our territory, any of your people dealing, we end you._

 _Haha!_

 _You heard Blanco… get your men outta town and you get to live._

 _Ohhh the dog speaks._

 _Yeah, our soldiers speak, and this dog ...got a whole buncha other dogs right with him that gonna tear you to pieces._

 _Nah...son..._

 _You don't think we got the means or what?_

 _No, I don't. Suburban Chi-boy ain't got shit._

 _Try it. God, just do. I'm hard jus' thinkin' about it._

 _I bet._

 _You got no fuckin' idea. Try try try, bitch, jus' fuckin' try. Come on come on come on…._

That conversation happened a hundred times with tens of underbelly organizations, _gangs,_ new ones, old ones. But the worst org was the hungriest, the one that kept coming back, over and over, and kept reaching a closed gate. One of a handful of orgs MK could never abide. One that hadn't been vanquished before Todd split to Cuba. A light went on, bright and blinding and fiery hot.

 _No, no, no._

Todd slammed wide hardened eyes onto Pedro's.

"Jesus Christ," he said, " _Los Muertos_ moved in, haven't they?"

Pedro had to tighten his smile, bury it, because the reality of the most violent gang in the region was nothing to smile about... but _hurra!_ His son, his touched-by-God-himself _Blanco,_ lived in that awareness… and _still did_. Together they'd been fighting these botttom-dweller gangs like the Salvadorans and the Irish since he'd first arrived in Llanview after his release from Statesville. To see him make the obvious connection without much prompting… was… _glorious._

Jed groaned aloud, "Yes."

Todd couldn't even talk. Téa, his Delgado, fucked with the balance. She flipped the chess board, all pieces flying…

"Tell me you're... lying," he rasped.

"Wish I could, Pops. Wish I could say it was unintentional. Not convinced it was."

"What? No, no, Delgado had no…" He paused, the word escaping him. He reached and reached… "She had no _idea_ what would happen, none."

Pedro looked at Jed thoughtfully, the smallest of smiles on his face. He wasn't convinced either that she really didn't know what might happen with the sinking of MK. He sniffed the hidden grandfatherly affection away and glanced at Todd. Decided to go with the best story for all. Best interest.

"No, _mí hijo,_ you are right. The result was not her intention. She is not violent or murderous." He sighed and laid his weary gaze on Todd. "You handed the crown back to me before the explosion and she wanted to take that crown away, take MK from me. She wanted it to hurt. And she did just that. I lost MK. I watched it die. There was nothing I could do. I deserved the loss. For...everything."

Todd stared at Pedro a moment. "Your closest men too? They're not with Téa. No way."

"No, no… they are managing the last vestiges of our organization. Trying to negotiate with others to control the violence but it is… not working. Territories have fallen, every organization is at war. With each other and with _Los Muertos."_

Todd leaned back and watched the bird again. She was picking at a glob of bird seed held together by a sugary sap. _Jesus CHRIST._ How Téa handled her grief… was as bad as him. He chuckled. And that small laugh grew.

 _Pick, pick, pick._

The bird jumped and sang once more in the light, her whitish chest puffed and her tiny beak open.

"Holy _shit,"_ he laughed. He couldn't stop laughing. Scorched mother-fucking-earth Delgado had fully embraced her title of _La Reina Puertorriqueña._ She decided to blow up another house, MK's house, the entire fucking system that Todd and Pedro had so carefully constructed. Nothing more than a Jenga tower.

 _Kapow!_

The laughing slowed. And of course, tears followed.

He bent over and just cried in his hands for his Delgado, for her own walk through hell. He could not even imagine the loss of life now in the region, young people no doubt, and no, he didn't think she'd done it with mal-intention, but he did wonder whether she gave two shits that she'd created a world war. Blood on her hands, some might say.

He never thought of himself as a narcissist, certainly he was… but honestly, he felt her hate across the miles. Down to his toes he _knew_ her bad act of ending MK had as much to do with getting revenge on _him_ , for dying, for leaving her… as it had to do with gutting Pedro.

"Does she… grieve _me_?" he asked in a hushed, wounded voice. Eyes on Jed who stayed silent a few beats too long. Todd figured this was going to hurt.

"Of course. It just doesn't quite look like _grief_. She doesn't cry, she doesn't talk about you other than to say _fuck him,_ literally that's what she says. She's thrown herself entirely into work. I can't even say she's present for your children." The last part he practically whispered.

"She… um… _with_ anyone?" He coughed the words but he just had to know. It was petty. Pathetic. He didn't care that it was. Northeast in uproar and he still wanted to know who his woman was fucking.

Jed actually laughed, not loudly but in a dark rolling way. "Pandora only married once, Dad. No man is gonna fall for her now, knowing the… _gifts_ … she brings. You got that on your side."

"Pandora's box…?"

"Yeah... _that_ Pandora. Moms comes with pretty packages, but hella bad inside."

Okay. Good. No other men. But that hurt in another way. For Delgado to NOT reach for sex to soothe her hurts? Fucking hell. He couldn't bear thinking of the pain that had clearly driven her to destroy MK so efficiently, so thoroughly, that it rivaled Rico dissecting Manuel Caro. Eating his heart. Bathed in blood.

"Her grief shows as hate," Pedro said softly. "Not unlike you."

Todd seethed at the comparison even though he'd done it too. But really… like him? Like _him?_ No… not like him. She metaphorically destroyed a house full of soldiers… he literally did it. She'd never be so… what…

 _Direct. Downright dirty._

 _Monstrous._

 _Evil._

"How do I get home? How… do I get… HOME!"

Now he was angry. He glared at Pedro and pointed the blade at him. He shook with fury. Every muscle.

"You didn't take care of her! You FUCKING let this happen! YOU!"

Todd got to his feet at that. Pure adrenaline strengthened his weak muscles and before anyone could move an inch, he threw himself at Pedro, flattening him on the bed, the blade aimed at his throat. He climbed on Pedro, wielding the blade, panting like a dog, Pedro pinned like prey.

"You fuckin' bastard. You let this …happen! You shoulda stepped in and... PROTECTED HER!"

Jed ran across the room to his father, "Dad… come on…come on! Pedro couldn't have stopped it!" Hands landed on Todd's shoulders. "Dad!"

"You shoulda been at that house! YOU shoulda fuckin' DIED with those...fucking PEDOPHILES!"

Pedro nodded, not fighting _Blanco_ in the least, croaking, "My son…I am sorry…"

"I am not… your SON!"

"Do you need to kill me? Do you?"

The old man looked up at the face above him, years of sadness there, such profound loss in those bright, light eyes. Pedro had added so much to the pain, so much to the weight on top of him. He had brought _Blanco_ here to save his life but it was true that he had allowed his world across the ocean to fall apart. He had protected _him_ but hadn't done much to protect his _home._

"I _am_ sorry, for all of it," Pedro sighed.

He reached up and held Todd's wrist and then, with a rumbling growl that reverberated all through their bodies, Pedro felt the blade puncture the skin on his neck, into the muscle. Pedro grunted at the feel and at that, he saw the flash of pleasure on his son's face, heard the smallest orgasmic gasp that was pure satisfaction, pure retribution, seconds before Jed grabbed him and yanked him off, pushing him back to the throne.

 _Madness._

Jed shouted, "You okay, Moreno? You okay? God damn, Pops! The fuck!"

Pedro held his throat and felt the blood, oily and slippery. It wasn't serious. It was representative. It was symbolic. If _Blanco_ wanted him dead, he'd have done it. Just a few more emotional punches regarding just how far things had fallen apart at home and it was absolutely going to happen.

"Yes, yes," he groaned. "It is all right. _Está bien_."

Todd glared at Jed, through him, jaw tight, nostrils flared with hard noisy breaths. The bloody blade dropped. Jed held him down, his own hard hands tight on his father's shoulders. He was easy to control… _now._ In a month, another story.

"Can you just THINK?! You gonna do that to Beatrice? To these sisters who been caring for you?! Dad! Pedro SAVED you!"

"Did he?! Did he SAVE me?! For what?! For… prison? To see all of you…" His features twisted with upset at the missing word until he spat, "SHREDDED?! He should have STOPPED HER!"

"How, Dad? By killing her? Isn't that what you would have done if it was someone else?"

Todd had no response to _that._ Dead silence because… well, yes.

 _Fuck!_

Pedro called out, "It's okay, Jedediah. I'm all right. His anger is warranted. I should have done something."

Todd closed his eyes to regain something of control. Abram had been awfully patient throughout the fight and now came to Todd, forcing his body beneath Todd's hand, his arm hanging limply to the side of the chair. He felt the fur, felt the dog's heat. He rubbed him and melted into the chair. Dropped into the cave so he could float a while. It wasn't the real thing but it was as close as he ever got these days.

Pedro gathered himself and went into the bathroom to clean up the mess. He wiped his neck and had to hold his own grief back. He had failed his son… _again._ What was worse is that he felt powerless to change things. Correction needed a strong king and that man was _Blanco_ but could he? _Would_ he?

When he stepped outside, he saw Todd focused on the bird and Jedediah on the bed.

"I am going back to the hotel," Pedro said. "I will deal with the reporter."

"Don't kill him," Jed snapped.

"Of course not. I will confront him. Tell him about Ivan. If he knows you're here though, that will be difficult to explain so I am of the hope he only followed _me_."

"I think so. He doesn't know where I am."

"Then you should tell him you are headed home."

"I don't know if that'll get rid of him."

"Don't worry. I will... _encourage_ him... to return to Havana. Leave it to me. You stay here. Get your father well. He has papers that can get him home without alerting authorities."

That caught Todd's attention. He looked at Pedro. "Guaranteed?"

"Yes, _Blanco._ Cuban passport for 'Victor,' a private plane to Miami, a car the rest of the way. It is full-proof. You can decide how and when to make yourself known. You stay at my home. I have several back houses. If you are...willing."

"Are _you…_ willing? I want you dead. I might… break a window and... slit your throat while you… _sleep_."

Pedro smiled sadly, his silver hair glimmering, his thin body making him appear smaller...breakable.

"I know," he said. "It is a risk I want to take. For all of you."

Todd couldn't tear himself from the pained love all over the old man. It wasn't familiar. This was new. Foreign fucking territory. Strange alien seedling had grown to a full tree. For all the hate he felt for Pedro, he believed him. The man... meant well.

 _If I had been your real father…_

He grunted and returned to the bird, his eyes following the yellow fluff ball as it bounced all over the cage from perch to perch. He closed his eyes and recalled easily being in an overheated room, a gun in his hand, Rico behind him on the small bed in Raquel's clinic. He was high on heroin given to calm him… and the gun in his hand was aimed at Pedro.

 _My son,_ mi hijo bastardo, _I love you more than my own family, my own sons. If I had been there, if you had been MINE, I would have killed Manuel myself. I would never have let anyone hurt you the way he hurt you, the way your own father hurt you. If YOU had been lying on a bed, broken, damaged, torn… I would have wrapped YOU in a blanket, I would have taken YOU into my arms… and carried YOU far away from those monsters. YOU would have been safe in MY arms. Had you been MINE._

The door to the tower room opened and then shut.

He remembered the choice not to kill Pedro that day for having built Caro's empire, for his role in all that _damage._ He hadn't done it because of Raquel and heroin. Killing him would have caused problems in the clinic, a mess to clean up, a body to get rid of. She didn't need that. Plus he'd be ending his heroin access. And he sure as hell needed that Mexican tar.

But now…as he listened to the bird, as ghostly images played out in the cave, pictures of Pedro's sorrowful, lined face hovering over him while he lay paralyzed… visits to the convent he knew instinctively had happened many times...

...he thinks he didn't kill him that day at the clinic because he wanted Pedro's paternal love more than _anything_.

* * *

Pedro emerged from the Sanctuary and walked somberly to the fountain. He sat tiredly at its edge and glanced surreptitiously up at the tower windows. He wondered, worried, that the fight might have been heard but he saw how high the room was. No, no way for sound to escape those stone walls...even through the open windows. The doors had been unlocked when he got down the stairs. He got to his knees in one of the pews and prayed to that God he didn't think ever did a thing for him. Prayed for enlightenment, prayed for safety for _Blanco_ and Jedediah and prayed for his own children who seemed so far away from him. He never saw the sisters.

He sniffed and got to his feet. He dug into his pocket and found some coins and tossed them into the water, the splash following thumps. A little boy smiled at him, mischievously, eyes moving to the coins.

Chuckling, Pedro said, " _Do not be a bad boy. That is for the sisters."_

The boy, light hair, grinned guiltily. Pedro pulled out _un peso Cubano_ from his pocket and handed the child the bill, saying, " _Now this, is for you."_

" _Thank you!"_ And off he ran. He couldn't have been more than five and Pedro knew what his brother would have done with that child. Pedro felt faint and plopped on the edge of the fountain again, wiping his brow with a bloodied handkerchief. He touched the cut on his throat. He did not know how to make up to _Blanco_ or any of the victims of Caro. Where would he even begin?

His death? Why did that feel so…empty?

When he looked up, he scanned the scant few people that still remained at the convent. He searched for the reporter. Not finding him, he got to his feet and began to head out, not looking forward to the long walk back to the city but needing the time to think.

Fifteen minutes later he was well on his way and he knew the young man was following him once again.

He stopped. Turned around. The kid stopped too, dead in his tracks.

In Spanish he asked, " _I have seen you already. In town, and now here. What do you want?"_

Ian Correa had learned nothing today. He toured the convent and saw nothing suspicious other than what happened with Pedro himself. The old gangster had gone into the Sanctuary and then… _nothing_. The doors to the church had locked Ian out. Odd. A half hour later, the doors unlocked, Ian went inside, and found… _nothing_. No Pedro, no mystery persons, all doors led to legitimate spaces such as a kitchen, dormitory bedrooms, and a way to the clinic. He had to have missed something.

" _Who are you hiding there, Señor Moreno?"_

" _Hiding?"_

" _Yes. Why are you here, at all?"_

Pedro sighed and took his handkerchief out once more to wipe his face. He looked at the blood and then put the folded cloth back into his pocket. Ian was now mere feet away from him.

" _Who am I speaking to?"_

" _Ian Correa, reporter for Havana Times."_

" _A reporter?!"_ Pedro laughed. _"I have been followed by much more dangerous men than you."_

Ian puffed his chest out and Pedro thought of _Blanca's_ bird. How easy it would be to _snuff_ this small man in front of him. But he promised Jedediah that he would not.

" _So answer me, Moreno! Why are you here?!"_

" _Penance,"_ the old man said after a minute.

" _You are hiding Todd Manning in there! You lie to me!"_

Pedro looked up in mock shock. " _What? What did you say?"_

" _You heard me. Do not play with me."_

" _I thought you said Todd Manning."_

" _I did!"_

" _Todd Manning is dead. And it breaks my heart to even hear his name. Why would you say such a thing?"_

Ian furrowed his brow, frustrated. The old man sounded… so sincere… but it couldn't be. " _You lie to me,_ " Ian repeated.

Pedro shook his head and turned, walking again. He knew the reporter would follow. And he did. They walked slowly along the dirt road, lush vegetation lining the way, palm trees bending towards them, shielding them from the late afternoon sun.

Pedro stopped and reached out to hold the trunk of a tree, slipping off a sandal to release a pebble. When the young man got close enough, Pedro took the sandal and before Ian could duck, smacked the kid in the head and grabbed him by the throat. He threw him against the tree trunk and held him there by the neck.

" _What… do you…want?!"_

" _The truth! Tell me about Manning!"_

" _He is dead! I told you! Now why does this matter?!"_

Pedro might have been aged but he was a damn monster. Ian was crushed against the tree and though he fought the hold he could not free himself. He was choking in the grip and black was threatening to engulf him. He'd gotten too close. He'd blown everything. He'd lost Jedediah and now… there was clearly something to hide. Why else would Moreno be trying to kill him?

Or… maybe…admittedly, the king of MK simply did not like being tracked. So something had to give.

" _Ivan_!" Ian finally shouted. " _Manning killed my cousin!"_

Pedro slowed in his efforts, loosening his grip. Eyes on the reporter's.

" _Ivan."_

" _Yes, yes… my cousin,_ " Ian coughed, glad to be breathing. The truth spilled easily. He was tired of the game. Too many people with their hands on his throat. " _The last I saw Ivan was with Todd Manning in Havana. He went into a house… never came out. Todd Manning was there too. I saw him go inside the house too."_

" _How did you know Manning?"_

Ian rubbed his face and eyed Pedro. " _I used to go to bars with my cousin and we'd watch fights. Todd Manning,_ Blanco, _used to fight. Ivan liked him."_

Pedro let him go and stood back. Eyes up and down the diminutive man. " _Ivan_ ," he said. " _You know what he did? For a living?"_

Ian nodded.

" _You were at the house?"_

" _I left Ivan there."_

" _You saw Manning enter the house. Why did you leave?"_

" _No point in staying. Ivan was going to work. Ivan never showed up again anywhere. I know he is dead. I wanted to hear Manning tell me."_

So forthcoming. Pedro figured this man wanted more than that. His own revenge perhaps. " _And then what?"_

The kid looked far away back towards the convent. He slumped against the tree. " _I would have something to say to our grandmother. And Jedediah would have had his father again."_

He looked at Pedro. Shrugged.

Pedro felt old. He couldn't even remember being this man's age. 25? 30? He reached into a pocket and took out a fine box and a lighter. He opened the box, pulled a thin, dark papered cigar and then lit it. He puffed and blew out the tasteful smoke.

After some time he said quietly, " _I killed Ivan myself. Had you stayed around, you would have seen me and my brother Manuel carrying Ivan to our car. We gave him to the sea."_

Ian slid down the tree and held his head in his hands. He knew this was true. He couldn't say if Manning was alive. It still could be true but… maybe not. He eyed the man smoking, tall, thin, but strong as hell for such an old man. Jedediah would be disappointed that they had hit a dead end.

" _What makes you think my son—_ Blanco— _is alive?"_

" _There is much to question about him. Nothing fits. His death records have disappeared and those that are available… do not make sense. You hiding him… does fit."_

Pedro glanced down the road. Real tears came at the memory of seeing _Blanco_ under the tarp. He didn't know why that came to him. But as soon as that image faded, he remembered _Blanco's_ face in the computer monitor at Elon's house. He had seen the look of full intention. Pedro knew when he saw his son, becoming grossly aware of all the years of abuse etched on that face, understanding all that the abuse had created, that Ivan was going to die by _Blanco's_ hand.

" _I wish, young son, I wish I was hiding him. I am here on a pilgrimage in penance for so much I have done to him."_ He paused.

" _What did you do to Manning?"_

" _Too much to mention."_ Pedro puffed more and then looked hard at Ian. " _Since you know what Ivan was, then you must know his death was a mercy killing. He hurt a girl very badly. That was not supposed to happen. I had no choice. Ivan was a danger to the world."_

" _Why should I believe you? This does not—"_

" _You do not have to believe me. Continue your search. Ask the sisters. I pray here, every day. I am hoping for peace. I do not know it will ever come."_ He stepped away and shook his head.

" _Why are you bleeding?"_

" _Penance. I told you."_

Pedro put his sandal back on. Stamped his foot to test the absence of the pebble. He sniffed and eyed the reporter. _"I do not care for intruders in my life. I suggest you return to whatever small safe life you have. Return. Before it's not that… safe."_

" _Are you threatening me?"_

Pedro laughed. " _No, no. I am warning you however. People do not fare well around me. Ask anyone. Ask Ivan."_

" _I will tell the police about you! I recorded every word you said!"_

The walk continued and Pedro waved his hand with the cigar in his fingers. He knew in his heart that Ian Correa would do nothing with the information on Ivan. He would fight to find Jedediah, he wouldn't be able to, he'd get a message that Jed left Baracoa and then… young Ian would go home to that little newspaper because his curiosity would never lead him past the Savior on the wall of the Sanctuary.

Death would have been better, more sure, but Pedro Moreno made a promise and he wasn't about to break it. He eyed the cloudy sky and wondered if God watched him.

"He'll live another day…that is something, yes?"

 **To be continued….**


	15. Chapter 15

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 15**

" _I wanna trust him."_

 _"Why? You don't trust nobody... why him? Why any MK motherfucker?"_

 _"'Cause they were my family when I had nothing. They saved my life, more than a few times. I gave up shit inside, for them. I wanna think... that it wasn't for nothing. Stupid, but there it is."_

 _"They're snakes, Manning. You trust a snake? A pit of them?"_

 _"No, but I want to."_

 _"Don't. Not for one fuckin' second."_

Todd watched outside the window as Pedro spoke to a child and handed him _un peso,_ a colorful bill that thrilled the boy at the fountain. Visiting hours were over and Pedro left the courtyard, heading down the road, silver hair disappearing into the jungle-like cover of green. RJ Gannon's voice echoed in his head, the warning not to trust any MK soldier, or Pedro.

 _They're snakes._

He thoughtlessly caressed the black Mamba snake tattoo on his neck, knowing its shape, knowing what it meant. _Loyalty to MK, danger to enemies._ And for him, behind bars… that meant a hell of a lot. _MK saved me._ He couldn't say that anymore, no, no way. And truth was, it had always been a desperate reach to justify belonging to and the continued captivity by MK.

He chewed on his lip, watching the last remaining guests leave the courtyard, each person tossing coins into the fountain. The fountain wasn't the gurgling kind but instead was a smooth glass-like pool with plants and a prayerful _Santo Pancracio_ standing watch in the center. Fourteen year old martyr that matched the saint hanging around Todd's neck. Rico had given it to him as protection. Did it work? Had he been _protected?_ He turned back to his airy room, the small bed, the dresser with clothes he didn't own. He wiggled his toes against the leather of his worn sandals. He lived a monk's life. He gazed at Abram happily dozing at his feet.

An ache in his heart got him to scratch his chest, fingers then grasping the saint. He wanted to trust Pedro so he could believe in the _love_ he offered. He wanted his own martyrdom to have been for _something._

What would any of this be for? Being born and then dying at fourteen?

He groaned wordlessly at the absurd thought about Pedro, rubbing at his hair now, his rough jaw. Nothing had changed! Pedro was still responsible for _everything._

The fountain may not have gurgled, but the hate that lived at the center of him certainly did.

Jed stood at the door talking to Beatrice in hushed tones. His son was tall and looked strong and healthy, his face matured, showing a deep concern by pinching his lips tight and creasing his brow. He'd pulled his long hair into a ponytail in the back. Such a hipster. Todd resisted the urge to get up and hug him, squeeze his kid to him so he'd never leave. His strained muscles stopped him. Those goddamn steps had nearly killed him.

Raquel moved into the room and Todd adjusted his position in the chair, to face her, to stretch a little. He gazed hard at her the closer she got to him. She smiled in her smart-ass way and crossed her arms, studying him a second or two, then held out her hand.

" _Give it to me."_

Todd knocked his head back in pure MK form and glowered at her. "No," he said.

" _Thirty minutes, Blanco, and already you are murdering. You can hardly walk. Like in La Habana, then, I have to take dangerous things away from you."_

She made a give-me motion with her fingers. Like the child he was to Raquel, all his bravado fizzled at the accusatory look on her face. He shook his head with an expression meant to mock her and he rolled his eyes. He hunched in the wheelchair and placed the blade, handle first, in the palm of her hand.

"He … uh… provoked me," he rasped.

Jedediah turned at that, "Did he, Pops?"

"Just by breathing," he answered quietly, picking at a loose thread on his linen pants at the knee.

Raquel held him by the shoulder, saying something he couldn't quite bother to hear, and he rubbed his cheek against her arm like a cat, a pussy cat, because he had no goddamn control over anything. How the fuck was he gonna go home and straighten shit out in this state? Vexed, he shrugged and shook Raquel off, reverting to the pit bull part of him, actually growling. He coulda bit her for the kindness she offered.

She tsked and made a show of putting her blade back into her belt pouch. " _I know how to use this, too, cabron,"_ she said under her breath.

Todd chuffed and raised his eyes to her, looking somewhat apologetic. And she nodded knowingly, then sighed at his moodiness.

Jed was now on the bed, eyeing his touchy, volatile father with a curious gaze. Unreadable.

"I'm uh… sorry," Todd said. "Didn't mean to upset you."

"It's okay, Dad. You were kinda right."

"Was he?" Beatrice asked, honestly curious.

Jed sighed and half way nodded.

The women had heard the ruckus in the room from the chapel and Beatrice had gotten up, anxious to get involved, but Raquel had stopped her. " _Your Angel is no angel. He is angry and their dispute needs airing. Leave them."_ They only came in once Pedro left.

Beatrice was now admiring the portrait of the Savior and she smiled beatifically at Him. She offered something of a plan. "Jedediah, would you like to stay here with your father? Help him heal? I'll send a sister for your belongings. I'm certain the reporter will not be a problem. I have no doubts Señor Moreno will make sure he leaves Baracoa."

"I had no intention of leaving. But maybe a sister in a habit collecting my stuff would be a huge giveaway as to where I'm at? I'll go—"

"No!" Todd said sharply, his voice then softening. "Please don't… go."

Beatrice smiled at the vulnerability _Angel_ easily showed. "I have someone else in town who can do it. Not a sister."

Jed rattled off the hotel and room number, struck by Todd's plea. He wasn't sure he'd ever sounded that way before, ever. It was always Jed asking to stay and Todd telling him to go.

Beatrice headed out the door, adding, " _Angel_ , no more assaults in my home."

"Jesus," he said to himself, under his breath, then he shouted, "…he's a… a... a pedophile-maker! You understand?! Do you GET THAT?!"

Now Jedediah chuckled and Todd realized his son was entertained; that was the expression he wore. Amusement.

"What's so funny, Chant? It's true."

Jed smiled, eyes gentle, "I know. I just… I can't fucking believe I'm sitting here with you. And you… are such an asshole…" He could only laugh softly and shake his head disbelievingly.

Raquel sat next to Jed and in her English said to him, "He is… with good luck. For you. His son. To be here."

Jed grinned at her, "My Pops knows how lucky he is. A lesser man than me would have dumped him ages ago."

Todd grunted in some kind of aggravation and both Jed and Raquel chuckled. Raquel got up at that and said, " _The sisters will bring you both dinner soon. I leave you to each other."_

Jed turned to her, "Raquel… why are you here? You were mad at him. Really angry, for hurting Rico that night. You don't seem angry any more."

Sighing raggedly, Todd gave her a rough translation.

She glanced down a moment, her features already weighed down at the mention of Rico. Her eyes watered and Todd glanced away at that, eyes out the window. She answered in Spanish and it was more to Todd than to Jed.

" _I grew to care for Blanco before he knew Rico. Many nights your father came to my cafe, after those fights in the bars. I saw deep pain and he looked to me for help. Without words. And then slowly, I learned why he was so sad. He lost his wife, his family. He was alone here in Cuba, and he was not here at his choice. And then he paired… surprisingly… with Rico who I already loved like a son. I tolerated their relationship. I didn't think it was right because Blanco was much experienced in love and Rico was not. But Rico loved him. Blanco was the first man he has ever loved. And even though Blanco mistreated him at the end… he wasn't well when he did that. So I'm here. Because of love. I am here FOR Rico. Because of him. I am here because I understand…"_ She looked at Todd and got close to him. _"I understand you."_

Todd trembled at her words, at her plainness. He said nothing. Couldn't. All his earlier thoughts on Pedro, MK, existential bullshit… even his wish for Jed to not leave him… vanished. The massive hole in the center of him, the real center… opened up… and it was so very empty.

She had just gutted him.

Raquel left and Jed knew she was crying. Knew what she said had floored his father. He lost all the color in his face and was clearly speechless. What Jed could translate?

 _Rico_. _Love._

After some minutes passed, long silent minutes, Todd said softly, "I don't deserve that." Tears welled in his own eyes as he studied the songbird. She sang in the dying light of the late afternoon. More minutes passed.

"She said she grew to care for me before Rico, and… and that she's here for him, and because she… um…" It wasn't that he couldn't find the word but that he couldn't _say_ it.

"She _understands_ me," he finally choked out.

He looked at Jed, searched his face for readiness to hear the truth.

"She's deluded. I'll never be a good person, I'm nobody to understand. I… uh…" He searched for the word, the goddamn words that kept ducking away from him like a mosquito…

"I _arranged_ for the bombing to happen, Jed. I arranged the meeting so those bastards would all be there when the thing blew. I watched a clock tick away… knowing what was going to happen, purposefully telling them things to get them arguing so they'd stay until the designated time. Tick tock, tick tock. Tick. Tock."

He gazed at Jed. His voice was hard now. All the words he needed were right where he put them.

"I killed Ivan in cold blood. I did. I strangled him with my own hands in a room in _that_ house. I made him think I wanted to have sex with him and he lay down on a bed… ready for me. He was a little surprised. I raped Gloria, _twice._ I beat the shit out of Rico when he dared to leave, tied him up for a week…. and the night Téa died, I blamed him for it. I said terrible things to him to get him away from me so I could get to that house and… and…"

"Dad…"

"NO! I… uh… don't know… _how_ to go _home_. I am every bit of the…I _am_ the _monster_ I hate. I am no better than Pedro or… or… Horenda or Caro… or anyone I've ever hated in my entire life. How can I… reclaim… _anything?_ I should not be here, I should not be there. I should be dead, and in hell. How do I look my children in the eye and ask them to… _love…_ me? HOW?! It makes me sick. Even seeing you now. Jesus fucking CHRIST. No, no, no."

Jedediah swallowed hard as Todd dipped his head and kept saying no, no, and of course the inevitable…

"Go away, Jed… go away. Go home."

Jed sat back on his hands. It was hard to offer much right off the bat. The guilt was solidly supported. He wasn't wrong. If all that was true? And Jed was sure it was. What he had was a real confrontation of the soul. As real a question as any man can face.

 _Is there any redemption for irretrievably bad?_

Jed thought of Rose. How he'd do anything to protect her from someone like his dad. Hell yeah. It terrified him down to his toes that she would grow to love someone like him. Rose, his beautiful daughter, smart, cute as a button, bright eyes with a whole lot of love for him. And he thought of Leticia, Rose's mom who died in an MK shootout. A whore Jed had gotten to like the year before his dad got out of Statesville. He'd gotten her pregnant, stupidly, one drunken night. A year after Rose was born, Leticia was trying to get close to this new "leader" of MK; she was kind of thrilled by him. _He has power… maybe I can be more than just a waitress. Maybe I'll get something for Rose._ Jed blew her talk off as fantasy. But then… he made the horrifying connection. She was talking about his _father._ The final math?

 _Jedediah… that man I mentioned to you, you know…_ the one… _he's a junky. Finally got with me yesterday. This whole time he was looking at me, wanting smack. Can you believe that? It's crazy! Pedro is so against drugs. You look funny… what's the matter?_

 _What's his name? What's this guy look like?_

 _His name is Blanco! Long hair, a scar on his face. He reminds me of you. In the eyes. I'm sure you know him._

Fuck ME.

Jedediah was up and pacing now. He had long forgiven Todd for the awfulness of that situation. His dad had no idea back then how close Jed was to Leticia. Or even that he knew her at all. Pops was just doing his shit, living _la vida MK_. It wasn't right, obviously, but Jed already knew how deep he was, how in debt he was to them. So no surprise his addictions were on fire. Also...nobody knew about Rose. Leticia wanted the protection of MK so they all went with Rolon being the bio-dad.

Also... Todd had closed his eyes since Statesville to the running around Jed had done for him, hadn't paid attention to Jed's own information-man status for RJ and the Posse. He couldn't see that, couldn't take another thing to be responsible for.

And Jed never blamed him for any of it. Jed _chose_ to get involved in his dad's world. It had always been his choice.

He walked up to Todd and grabbed the arms of the wheelchair, startling him to get his attention. He moved the chair, forcing Todd to face him. Jed plopped himself on the bed, his hands still on the chair. The two men now inches apart.

"Look at me, Pops. Dad, look at me."

Todd reluctantly raised his eyes to his son, the paleness fading a little. "What is there to say?" He had a low-level rumble in his voice. Fury. That hate.

Jed tilted his head and gazed at his dad, seeing all that woundedness he usually hid. There was no covering now. It was a bright line next to the hate.

"You can't change the past," Jed said. "That is true. You were raised by a monster. Another true fact. You became one. Let's go with that. Yeah, you did. And as a monster, you did some pretty bad shit, Pops. Almost… unforgivable. Gloria? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"That's what monsters do."

"No argument. But in all that, you created loving human beings all over. People who got to know the _good_ part of you… and you do have a good part… they _thrived_. Your kids, Téa, Rolon, Rico. The kids in prison. Even Pedro. He changed. And it was because of you. Had this happened five years ago, he wouldn't have saved your life. He'd have let you die or worse, made sure of it."

"Oh Jesus… you're as deluded as _la Doctora._ You mean, all that _thriving_... was _in spite of me."_

"No. _Because_ of you. You always had a good reason for the things you did. It was always for good. I know this. I saw it. I was there for a whole lot of it."

"No, no, that's not… right. That's not true!" He tore his gaze away, fighting what he was hearing. He couldn't stand his son doing this, seeing things that weren't there.

"Look at me! Only me!"

Todd finally did, hearing his son's very own hate...

"I said people who YOU LET IN, those who you allowed to see the real you… the _good part of you_. Every time that happened, that person grew inside. Became more. And if they didn't… it was because they didn't want to change. Your dad, for one. I'm talkin' big picture here. You have to go with _that._ It might not redeem you in the way you think? But it says you got a purpose here, a reason to stay alive, to go home. A reason to re-imagine the future."

"Monsters don't get better. Only bigger."

"That's a lie you tell yourself to stay stuck so you don't gotta fight your impulses that Peter Manning built into you. Monsters don't get better, you're right... unless they _want_ to. And I know you _want to._ You always have."

Todd could only hold his head and feel the furious hot tears that ran down his face. He hid behind his hand, his elbow on the arm of the wheelchair throne he claimed. He was so ashamed of the life he'd led, so sickened by it, every cut had come alive on his skin, fiery, burning. He saw it all, right along with the bad stuff that happened _to_ him—.

 _Love is quiet._

Tim Graham's voice broke into the chaos all of a sudden. The doctor told him that once. Said hate was loud and drew all the attention but love was soft and… quiet. Hard to hear. The memories in the cave that played constantly did tend to be the loud stuff, the bad. The good things… they were smaller… _quieter._ His kids, Viki, Téa. They sprinkled the black of the cave like silent twinkling stars.

But his son right now was demanding to be heard. As loud as love could get. A sunburst in that black.

"I'm so sorry…," he said. "I don't think—"

"Dad. Stop. Sorry is a stupid word. Actions mean more. And the biggest action? Getting your ass home. You wanna prove you're a monster who can be better, who wants to be better? Come home."

Todd chuffed, a laugh, a derisive one. About to unload. Except before he could say a word, Jed hit him with one last path of cookie crumbs.

"Okay… fine."

Jed pushed the wheelchair back and stood up. No, no, it was an uncoiling, like a snake. Like his father. He towered over Todd now, hazel-colored eyes that had seen too much in his young life, eyes hard as diamonds. Yeah, a whole lotta home-grown hate came from his kid, much of it fed by _years_ of dealing with a fucked-up father.

"I was gonna let this ride a couple of days," Jed growled, "I was _waiting_ for you to send me home. You got to it a lot faster than I thought you would. So fine, Dad. Let's go with you being an unrepentant monster, a real motherfucker hopelessly bogged down by a whole lot of unforgivable _shit._ You are _irredeemable._ You're going to hell, for SURE."

Todd looked at his son, giving the smallest nod. Curious.

"Well then, fucking OWN it. Be it. Fucking SHOW it, DAD. One thing monsters don't do? Become monks! Téa needs that monster right now. That's a TRUTH. You HAVE to fix this MK mess or she's gonna end up dead for real. Your kids? They might just end up casualties. Me included. Who cares if you're weirded out that they _love_ you? That's shit you can deal with later in a cozy fucking THERAPIST office! Your _Delgado_ got your house on a 24-hour security watch. MK men. She poached ex-Salvadorans too, do y'all hear that? Pedro didn't mention THAT shit because he doesn't KNOW that shit! Fucking Salvadorans are roaming our goddamn backyard because they got a new goddamn queen. She's got _bodyguards._ She's a TARGET. Are you hearing me?! Do you get this?! Come HOME and fucking FIX IT! You want redemption?! You want purpose?! FIX the SHIT YOU FUCKING BROKE!"

 _Well… shit._

* * *

Téa Delgado drank her glass of red wine, a particularly good year, on the roof of her building. It was hot, summer scorching even though it was eight at night. The city was gorgeous from up here, all lit up, lights bouncing in all directions. She had a whole set up, a glass and steel table for four, fine matching steel chairs. _Musica._ A Persian rug. A couch. She bobbed her foot to hard-core mariachis coming out of the speakers, and closed her eyes, ignoring Victor at the door going into the building, Lanzo circling the perimeter. Tony and Mark stood guard at the building's front door downstairs.

She had a date tonight. Well, not a date date but a meeting with a marijuana grower, supposedly. Her people vetted him. Came out clean. Name was Diego Rivera, yes, like the artist. _Mexican._ It's why she put on the mariachis, music she remembered from her childhood. Her neighbors had been Mexican. Téa would visit and she and Zulnira would dance and giggle while the mama cooked dinner.

When she saw him emerge from the doorway, she laughed. It was the man from the club. My god, she thought. Sexy as hell, Dolce & Gabbana suit, wry grin on his face. He had flirted with her as she embraced Gloria on the dance floor, as she danced drunk and in a fuck-it state of mind. As she flitted away from new bodyguards and RJ and Rolon.

"Good evening, _bonita_ , surprised to see me again?"

"Yes, you could say that."

He sat down and helped himself to the wine after some small talk. He gazed at her as he spoke, deep, intense dark eyes. His face was handsome, sharp lines, perfect stubble, a jawline that could only be described as _royal._

Téa was… fascinated. What… _gumption_ he had. Her bodyguard, Victor, hung slightly closer now. Lanzo moved in as well.

"I don't suppose you can lose the men," Diego purred after more wine, more small talk.

"No… they don't ever leave me alone."

He smiled with those perfect teeth. And Téa chuckled lightly, a voice sounding fair and musical, like breakable china. "Let's get to business," she said. "You want to provide product? We already have growers. Why should I switch?"

"We have better product. I have a full laboratory testing new strains every day. We have the highest THC on the market. If you go with me, your sales will go up, your customers will never leave you. Right now, your competition has you beat."

"Who? That's intel I haven't heard."

She reached for a decorative wooden box, the lid painted red with birds flying away against a stormy sky. She opened it and pulled out a cigarette. They were Todd's actually. She found them in a jacket pocket. Seven Camel cigarettes in a pack. She chose this box off a shelf in a vintage store on Sixteenth Street the other day. She figured Brandy might have liked it. A _pretty thing._

Diego lit her cigarette with his own lighter, chivalrous. "Will you join me on the sofa?"

"Sure."

They moved across the carpet littered with rich reds and yellows and clues to the velvet sofa, soft and inviting. They sat close and he soon put an arm around her and she let him. Though she did notice that he hadn't asked to do that, hadn't gotten her permission. Her consent only came once it was done.

They talked details, heads close, mouths inches away. They kept pouring the wine, she lit a second cigarette, and she knew the alcohol was going to her head, that her body felt things SHE did not feel, did not want.

 _I own you. Your body is mine to have. To enjoy. And to give it away to whoever I want._

 _You're talking about Rico. You didn't give me to him… I gave myself to him._

She could hear _Blanco_ laugh in her ear but it wasn't him, it was… _Diego._ Sexy Diego who was a _grower._ She chuckled at her own joke, kind of wanting to see if it was true. Was he a … _grower?_ Only... another _Diego_ intruded on her wine-infused thoughts. A Diego that broke Todd's heart in prison by being so very broken, too broken to live, so broken Todd gave him heroin at the end, enough to kill him.

 _The first time Diego said anything to me was on the bleachers. We were watching a game and he said, 'am I alive?' I said yes, and he said, 'why?' I said the truth. 'I don't fuckin' know.'_

Téa straightened up slightly, pulling out of the man's hold on her, distracted, Todd's own brokenness inching its way into her heart.

 _No, no, no. Go away. You left me. Don't come crying to me now. If I want to fuck him, I'll fuck him._

She could see _Blanco_ now, Rico at his side, kissing him, both naked, Rico's divine perfect cock on her husband's bare thigh. _Blanco_ grinned at her, flicking away a cigarette, and focusing on his lover now, pushing him down so he could enter his willing mouth with his own magnificent erection.

Téa shook her head, willing away images she didn't ask for, and smiled at Diego who smiled back.

"You are… beautiful," he said. "I've never met anyone like you. An intellect, powerful, ambitious. I love it. You are someone I want to… _work_ with."

He eyed her body, eyed the black tight slacks and the silky sleeveless blouse she wore. He reached to her and touched the edge of the blouse, the front, the barest cover of her breasts. She didn't wear a bra. He was the first to notice.

"Is there somewhere private we can go?"

"No," she said. "This is as private as it gets."

"I'd like to make love to you. I'd like you to sit on my lap so I can play with you. You don't mind the guards watching?"

Téa laughed and put out the cigarette on a small glass dish on the coffee table. She returned to him, eyes on him. Said, "Presumptuous, aren't you? What makes you think I want to fuck you?"

He was taken aback and then laughed. She got him good. Of course she did. Getting her in bed was never going to be easy. "Shall I send papers then? An agreement."

"If they give us exclusive distribution rights. I don't like competitors."

"You don't have enough money, structure, dispensaries, sellers."

"Try me. Send me paper. I'll let you know if we can meet the demand. Never underestimate a woman."

Diego stood and held out his hand to help her up. She'd taken off her heels and she was so much smaller than he remembered from the club. She was delicate.

 _Breakable_.

Eladio Merced, the head of _Los Muertos,_ was more intrigued and inflamed than ever. Téa Delgado was every bit the Queen he imagined. There was nothing he wanted more than to take her, to own her. To think of it, took his breath away.

After Diego left, after a rushed conference with Lanzo who went skitting off like a bat out of hell, Téa walked down the stairs to her office, heels in her hands, Victor carrying two wine glasses and a fresh bottle. She walked into the office suite and Gloria was typing away at the outside desk, wearing new glasses that made her look like a proper secretary. Téa collapsed on the couch in her office.

"Bottle and glasses on the table, Victor, and send Gloria in please."

Gloria soon sat next to Téa and opened the wine bottle. Victor lingered in the outer area, the door to the inner office only part way closed. Gloria poured the wine into the two glasses. They both drank, draining the glasses quickly. _Long day, strange meeting up on the roof, too many clients, the lawsuit against Pedro Moreno is going gangbusters, there's a message from another dispensary that want to join the coop…_

Téa poured again and the women drank again, putting the glasses on the coffee table, only half-drained this time. They settled back into the couch, well doused, well tipsy. Close. Téa looked at Gloria for a long minute and then moved in. "May I kiss you, Gloria?"

She nodded and Téa did exactly that. Kissed her full on the lips, a slow kiss, a tender one, heavy with meaning.

Gloria smiled, surprised, fingertips on Téa's cheek. "Why?" she asked.

"You're gorgeous, you're my friend. You loved him as best you could." She then repeated what Rico said once. "I want to feel what he felt. I want to touch what he touched."

A small gasp escaped from Gloria's lips and she shut her eyes for a moment, the words hitting her deeply. It was more in empathy, more how strongly she felt Téa's love for _Blanco,_ how lost she was without him. It was the same as she recalled of _Blanco._ How lost _he_ was, how much _he_ loved Téa. She nodded and kissed her back, firm biting kisses, pushing Téa back, all the way back until Gloria was on top and kissing her neck, down Téa's chest, hand firmly on her back, mouth searching for and finding the taut nipple. Téa breathed in at the sensation she'd forgotten, letting Gloria suckle and taste and pull until Téa was crying with desire…

… with memory.

Téa then took on an imagined role, Todd's role, and grabbed Gloria by her arms to push _her_ back, to climb on top of _her_.

"Let me touch you, let me inside of you," Téa said, echoing remembered words. "Let me fuck you."

Gloria moaned softly beneath Téa, feeling an aggression she couldn't have guessed. Téa reached down and unbuttoned the buttons on Gloria's slacks, kissing her forcefully, tasting her tongue, her lips, feeling her breasts under her blouse against her own. She reached inside the slacks, reached inside the panties, finding her wet core and hearing Gloria gasp loudly, unmistakable sexual noise. Easy easy, Téa slipped two fingers inside Gloria, imagining, imagining…a thumb grazing the clit… so much wetness, who knew, such silky wet, _god, the heat,_ allowing her such depth, as far in as she could go.

"Good GOD," Gloria moaned, kissing Téa hard, giving as much as she was taking. The two women writhed against each other, moving like the ocean, like the waves, rhythmically rising and falling, Téa watching Gloria react to every thrust of her fingers, moving until Gloria finally called out, the orgasm all-consuming and full of want. Téa held back her tears at that, not from jealousy, but from raw grief, thinking _he_ had heard that sound, _he_ had felt that womanly heat, _he_ had felt her pulses on his slathered cock, _he_ had held her body slack with ecstasy in his arms, _he_ had lain on top of her. And she had no doubt that after her joy, he chased his own. Hard and fast and selfishly.

She could feel Todd in Gloria, as real as if he stood right next to her.

Gloria held Téa, her hands on her cheeks, kissing her tenderly. She urged her back again and stripped her carefully of her slacks, of her blouse, of her wetted lace underwear. Gloria delicately spread Téa's legs and got between her smooth thighs and licked the waiting sex, getting Téa to gasp and breathe heavily. Gloria didn't stop, keeping up the intentioned tastes and strokes and sucks, knowing the responsive pearl, knowing Téa was close.

"Can I penetrate _you_ , get inside _you_?" Gloria panted.

"Yes, yes…"

And she did with her fingers, mouth again on her core, Téa rolling her hips faster and faster, hands in Gloria's long hair, breasts heaving... until she moaned, "Oh my god…," the long-awaited orgasm tearing through her body, waves of pleasure taking over everything, all her body alive and aware.

As she came down, as the orgasm faded, she saw Todd's ghost across the room, leaning against her desk, fingertips of one hand on his lips, eyes on hers, Rico down on his knees, busy, head bobbing. Todd then jerked hard, hissing in pleasure, his head tossed back, lips parted, clearly coming into his lover's mouth. He glanced down, fast breaths, hands back on the desk… muscles tense, tight with tension and… pure lust. _"Do it again, I'm still hard, do it…"_ But Rico stood up instead and kissed Todd passionately on the mouth, just Todd, not _Blanco_ , promising, "We have plenty of time, _mí león_ , an eternity," and then they both turned to Téa and all she could see was love there.

For her.

 _Come to bed._

Gloria fell warmly on Téa's body, the two embracing, the two understanding what the tryst meant.

"Did you enjoy that, at least?" Gloria asked.

"Of course I did, you're incredible, Gloria."

She studied the woman's brown eyes, sensuous as tropical water beneath a Cuban moon. After some moments, Téa asked, "Did he enjoy it with you? Was it… pleasurable for him?" She asked because sex was so very complex for Todd. He didn't always enjoy it, so often finding it laden with meaning and an unsaid agenda. Lovers were often enemies or users or victims.

Gloria rested on Téa's shoulder and she shrugged. "I'd like to think so, it was usually intense, hot, it was, but like I said, he wouldn't look at me… he wouldn't smile, and even the sounds he made… seemed… restrained. Oh Téa… don't cry. Don't cry."

Gloria kissed Téa's tears for her man, knowing she cried for his forever-hurts, even the ones she caused and kissed her mouth and held her tightly, whispering between kisses, "It's alright, mamita, it's alright."

Some time later, Victor peeked into the office, finding the women cuddled, nude on the couch, looking like two dark-beauty sirens on a sandy shore calling to sailors on long lonely journeys. He smiled and apologized and began to back out.

Téa said, "Wait… Victor… did Lanzo find out where… um… _Diego_ went?"

"We got him tailed. We got an address."

Gloria lifted her head, "What are you talking about?"

"There is no such person as _Diego Rivera,_ the grower."

"What do you mean?"

"It was Eladio Merced."

"Holy HELL, Téa!"

"It's okay… Lanzo followed him home."

Victor nodded, "That he did."

"You're playing with fire, you know," Gloria said.

"I have to do something," Téa snapped. "Eladio thinks he has something on us, playing me, pretending to be _Diego,_ such an insult. He needs a good hard slap, don't you think?"

"What are you going to do? And how can YOU play RJ and Rolon this way? They still have no idea Eladio was in the club! The leader of _Los Muertos!_ "

"I'm playing it by ear. I'm glad you recognized him. I wouldn't have known otherwise about tonight. He really would have played me, that bastard."

"I'd know him anywhere. I knew him before he was anyone. He came to me later, trying to bring along his organization, trying to get me to help. He was always ridiculous, Téa. I'm happy to see him burn."

"He never hurt you, did he?"

"No, that is one man who had bigger goals than getting with me. I wasn't… high up enough to bother with."

Victor grunted, "We'll continue to tail him. We'll start getting a layout of all that _Los Muertos_ controls, every hangout, every club, every territorial space. Once we have that… we'll figure out next steps."

Gloria shook her head and gave Téa a final kiss on her lips, " _Mí Reina Puertorriquena, tan valiente eres."_

Téa said softly, "We'll see." And once Victor retreated, giving them privacy to dress, she hugged Gloria and whispered, "Thank you for sharing Todd with me."

"I wish I could bring him back for you."

Téa closed her eyes at that and huffed, needing to get back to her normal, casting her fishing line into the sea of hate she used to stay strong. "It's best he stays in hell," she said, "because if I saw that sonofabitch… I think I'd kill him all over again. I'll never forgive him, Gloria. Ever. God help that bastard if I ever see him in the afterlife."

Gloria hugged Téa back, feeling her renewed hurt, and breathed, "I know, _mí Teita_ , I know."

Later in bed, at home, Téa dialed the hotel room in Baracoa, Cuba, Jed's room.

The phone rang and rang, with no answer.

 **To be continued...**


	16. Chapter 16

**Caged:Reclamation**

 **Chapter 16**

The two men ate their breakfast among the sisters in the dining hall, the tables scratched and ancient and well-used, the chatter light and easy. The sun shone through the windows along the side of the hall, falling on Jedediah who charmed the sparkly-eyed sisters, young and old, with his smiles and good nature. The Spanish and English flowed together, his deeper voice and male presence striking.

Raquel sat across from Todd, watching him in her usual motherly manner.

" _Eat,"_ she clucked, pointing to his untouched _huevos,_ the toast, the now-cold _café con leche._ He eyed her dispassionately, picked up the fork, and scooched the egg around the plate, returning to his silent study of his son at the next table over. He sipped the _café_ to satisfy her.

It had been a week since Jed had arrived at the convent and Todd had hardly spoken two words to anyone, flattened by Jed's excoriation of him, more flattened by what his Delgado was doing back home. He couldn't wrap his head around it, couldn't picture it. It had been difficult enough to grasp when Pedro presented what was happening but it was more than he could bear when Jed laid it all out.

 _Look at me! Only me!_

And he did. He heard every goddamn word as he looked into Jed's light eyes full of darkness and for once in his life, he had nothing to say at the end of the truth-telling tirade. Shock stilled him, silenced him.

First, there was Jed's understanding that Todd was a monster. Hands down, no question. It wasn't hypothetical. The awareness was so deep that the kid planned on letting Todd's usual bullshit _ride_ until some to-be-determined point when he'd let the truth-guillotine drop _._ From the moment he'd laid eyes on his resurrected _Pops,_ he had every intention of laying reality out in just the way he did _._ Todd kept thinking back to Jed's patient, quiet gaze when Pedro gave the MK update on that first day. He knew more but wasn't gonna share _just yet_ because the _monster,_ while definitely a monster, was also a predictable _fuck_ that needed managing. Even following a surprise return from the dead…

 _You're still you!_

And in _that_ lived another truth, a pathetic one. When Jed promised redemption by returning home, Todd realized he still had hope for such a thing even though, yes, he had committed to the convent on the very basis that there was NO redemption possible. Except as soon as he felt renewed hope for his cursed soul, he saw in his son's eyes that Jed was lying, that his son knew, of course, there was no redemption, ever. That he could never make up for what he did in Havana… but also Llanview… Statesville… Llanview University… and Chicago. Escrow had closed and he got the house!

He now OWNS it.

And damn it, the last death rattle of hope… hurt.

But the overriding slam was Delgado's absolute and undeniable madness.

 _The Mad Queen._

No, no, she'd never be mad like him because she could never be _that_ , but there still was _a_ madness in becoming a singularly focused slow-marching Grim Reaper _._ She grabbed a gun and went after Moreno with precision and coldness. She drew his soldiers to her, took away their weapons and fed their hunger, and then watched Pedro Moreno die in his castle, alone, forever deprived of his beloved MK subjects. Two bullets at his heart. Yeah, a madness he was intimately familiar with. She was mad like fully-dressed Rico standing next to chopped up Manuel Caro, bits of his heart in his belly, standing in that basement just the same as if they were in a _paladar_ with two drained beer bottles between them and asking...

 _What is the matter?_

Todd had looked up at his son staring him down and pushed the wheelchair back a foot or so with his feet. _Kick...kick._ He had carefully and painfully stood, shuffled into the bathroom, and shut the finely sanded and painted white door behind him. There, he had eased himself onto the floor in the dark and held his aching head in his hands and closed his eyes.

 _Ohhh Delgado. Oh god. What have you done?_

Outside, he had heard a soft rapping of knuckles on wood, "Dad… talk to me."

When he hadn't answered—he _couldn't_ answer because nothing was getting out of the tunnel that night, too many bodies in the way—Jed had sighed loud enough to be heard and said, "Good thing there's no dope here. I'd be worried. You and bathrooms are always a bad mix."

 _A joke. Hahaha... fuck you._

When there was still no answer, Jed twisted the door knob and opened the door, light coming in from the room and revealing Todd in his favorite depressive pose.

"Oh Dad… look, you _can_ fix this," Jed had said. "I have an idea as to how. In the meantime, I'll help you get back to your old physical shape. I'm gonna research exactly what we need to do. And then you're going home. You don't have ANY choice in this by the way. I am not leaving Cuba without you. Now, whether you show yourself to cops or FBI or anyone who'd turn you in, THAT is your choice. But going home isn't."

Jed then did his best at consoling, trying to counterbalance the shitty attitude, saying, "I love you, Dad. Forever. Maybe even _because_ you're a monster. After being raised by grandparents who did nothing about their missing daughter, my mom, your Michelle, after years of them just accepting she was dead and moving on… I needed someone who would never stand still when bad shit happened. And that was you. I'm no different. I don't stand still."

 _True that, baby boy._

Todd had heard Jed leave after a few agonized minutes, heard his frustrated _flip-flop_ shoes go down the stone steps, getting fainter and fainter until the secret door behind the Savior opened and shut, the quietest closing possible. He had no cigarettes, no heroin, no alcohol, no knife. Funny how that was his instinct, funny how he wanted those things not from any organic desire but more because he _should_ have wanted them. Instead, he had _truth-pain_ to disrupt the chaos in his head and that was always the worst kind of pain but it was also what drove him all his adult life to take action. Good and bad. And just like always, he knew the _truth-pain_ would get him home so he could wrap his arms around Téa and protect her from the world once again. If he could. If she'd let him.

And he would need every ounce of strength he could get.

 _Well…shit_.

He then made his way to bed and jumped like a suffocated fish into the sea of sleep. Never heard Jed return to the room. And morning eventually did come.

 _Okay, I got a workout plan for you, Pops. Did you know Beatrice has internet access in her office? Who knew such tech existed in this old isolated place? Anyway, you don't have to talk to me or even look at me. I don't care. Doesn't bug me. But you do have to get out of bed. So get up, get in the shower, and no, you're not gonna skip meals. Three square. Every day. And vitamins and whatever pills the doctors say you need. So Pops, let's go, come on, move, move, move._

Reluctantly, Todd had opened his eyes to a too-bright room, to a too-chipper kid who transformed himself into a fucking prison guard. All he needed was a billy club. But Todd knew it had to be done so without a word, he got up, showered and dressed, and in that same brooding, pissed-off silence, he followed his son down the tower steps for breakfast, slow walking all the way. Painful as fuck. After eating, they then trekked through the jungle with Abram leading the way to the winery where they did sit-ups, push-ups, and pull-ups. They then returned to the tower room for a _siesta_ and then back down for dinner. At night, they trudged back up to the room for _té con leche_ and to listen to music either by the sisters singing and praying in the courtyard or the songbird or the classical music albums on a rickety old record player that had been used while Todd had been in his coma. Or reading. Jed found a library on the grounds and he sometimes read aloud the English history books. When the sisters sang, Jed would sit on the wide window sill and watch them and Todd could see how moved he was by their voices rising upwards into the heavens. And it was to whatever music played or whatever long passages Jed recited that Todd climbed into bed and knocked out into a sleep of the dead, exhausted by the work to get him to traveling-shape.

And in that sleep, he'd barely move, flying in a dreamless night sky, his only escape.

Such was their routine.

Pedro had visited two of the evenings, had taken the long climb up the stone steps, both times sitting with the two men to listen to the music, studying the silent Todd who refused to even look at him, and engaging in talk with Jed about Cuban history or MK history or other bullshit until Todd got up from his wheelchair-throne to get on the bed, to go to sleep. On the second night, right after Todd got in bed, Pedro told Jed that the reporter had returned to Havana, but hadn't stopped his search for corruption.

"I believe he will no longer bother with me as a focus. Or your father."

Before he left, Pedro looked at the back of _Blanco_ on the bed and cried, "I am here, my son, always."

Todd had rolled over at that and glared at the retreating Pedro and then hawked and spit in the man's direction. Still saying nothing. Returning to his heavy sleep.

Yeah, yeah a petulant spiteful hypocritical _monster_.

Physically, he wasn't doing too badly, he admitted. He wasn't even using a cane. He wasn't quick but he was getting stronger.

Jed laughed at a pretty nun, teasing her on an English pronunciation of something, and she blushed, and Jed repeated the words, promising her his Spanish was far worse. The women then turned the tables on him and he failed their tests spectacularly and everyone laughed as if nobody had a care in the world. He caught his dad looking at him, expressionless, still refusing to talk to anyone.

Stubborn old man, Jed thought, fucking asshole, _always_.

Beatrice had asked Jed the previous day why the shut-down? "He has stopped talking," she had noted. "He will not speak to me or María or Anna or Raquel or even Joella, the one he likes to look at..."

Jed chuckled at the idea of his dad staring at a hot nun, turning to Beatrice, "He uh… are you serious?"

Beatrice smiled, a small one, "He is a human being whose brain injury affects his ability to hide his feelings."

He got that but still. Convenient excuse. What Beatrice didn't know was that his dad had no shame _without_ a head injury. No goddamn sense. They're NUNS, he wanted to yell. Though he never was surprised at who his dad stirred to the point where they wanted to answer his unspoken _interest_. Yeah, he wouldn't be surprised to find a nun in his dad's bed now that he thought about it. To be honest. What an asshole. Good thing there's no hot _priests_ around.

Beatrice and Jed had been on a noontime walk with Abram while Todd napped, and she was still obviously concerned. "It's what he does, _Madre_ ," Jed mused, trying to lessen her worry, "he disappears into his head, working on the next means of attack." He shrugged. "He's also pretty depressed, feeling hella sorry for himself."

"Has he hurt you, child? You speak to him… roughly. As a warrior might with a difficult captain in a difficult war."

Jedediah had laughed, harder than was appropriate, pulling his hair back and squatting down to pet the dog to give him a good belly scratch.

"Where do I begin?"

Then he gazed into the darkening jungle, the trees shadowy, moving in the humid breeze, Abram happily on his back.

"I didn't meet him until I was 16. I hunted him until I found him. Ended up a careful-what-you-wish-for kinda thing. First time I talked to him, he threw me against a window to make a point."

Beatrice's eyes widened at that. Jed only chuckled.

"It's okay, it was a reinforced window in a psychiatric hospital. He doesn't do that anymore—mess with me, that is."

"You became an equal."

"Yeah, I guess. I could never match him physically… so I pulled a gun on him, a knife, I punched him when he was down... always to stop him from doing something he'd regret. God, I was… _so_ _disappointed…_ at who my dad was. Drugs were his world, insanity his food. He was an actual criminal. But then… he saved my life. Saved ME. Used his crazy, his addictions, his criminality, to lift me up and walk me outta hell into safety. Literally."

"That sounds like a story."

He stood up, looking at kind, wise-looking Beatrice with the soft brown eyes. He then told her what happened with Phillip Manning, how he'd been taken and abused and was going to die in that wet dark subterranean room under the city but that his heroin-high father had found _him_ and rescued _him_. That it was his badness that allowed it to happen.

"Had he followed the rules, I wouldn't be here."

"Yes, that is a story, isn't it?"

"Sure is. This though…" He looked around, motioning to the entirety of the convent. "This is a new story. I really thought I lost him. It's been the hardest… seven months of my life. Yeah, I lost him for good. For real. Forever. We had nothing but ashes. I can't tell you how it feels to see him again, to touch him. Over and over, I had dreams where I was so relieved to see him alive. I never thought it could be true. So I'm relieved. But…"

"What?"

"I know… this is it. This is… the last time... I will _find_ him." He sighed. "Cats only have seven lives. He is gonna die eventually and it ain't gonna be peaceful in bed at 100. I know… this is the last lucky break. It's like… another kind of grief."

Beatrice wore her usual habit, black work-pants and leather work shoes, a button-down shirt with stripes tucked into the belted pants. Similar to Raquel. They did not look like a nun and a doctor, they rejected all conventions of Cuban society. Like this boy. Just the same as his father. She gazed back at Jed, such a handsome young man who she could see looked so much like Angel.

"You're a strong man to come to the convent, to be his son, to still love him."

"He's my only dad, and strangely, ironically, a good one. From the outside, you just see a fu—" He caught himself. "You just see a screwed-up jerk. He fights me all the time… God, the _level_ of fight... but he knows I'm right." He chuckled sadly. "It isn't the truth of him though. His being a jerk. It's not. Anyway, like I said, he's ok, _Madre,_ don't worry about him. He'll come out of it. Then you'll wish for the days that he _wouldn't_ talk."

Jed laughed brightly and Beatrice smiled, their walk continuing.

Beatrice had understood then the silence of _Angel_.

She now walked among the women in the dining hall, reviewing chores for the day, things to prepare for, assignments across the convent. She sat next to _Angel,_ next to the man she knew would be returning home very soon. He had progressed much in the past few days, and even though Jedediah said not to worry, she did. She wasn't sure he was going to be ready to go when the day arrived.

"God knows you," she said quietly, getting Todd's attention. He jerked towards her but didn't quite turn to her.

"I have faith in your strength."

Raquel picked up the plates and left. Jedediah had gotten up, too, and helped the women clear the dining room.

"If He did know me," Todd rasped, "I'd be... _dead_."

Taking his hand into hers, happy to have gotten a response, Beatrice repeated her story to him that she'd been telling. "He has a purpose for you. I know this. Those men you killed were _evil_ , truly. What you did was wrong, yes, but I believe you are forgiven. He forgives all, if you seek it."

He grunted, a harsh sound, disbelieving. But then he softened and said, "Thank you for taking care of me. I can't ever... repay you. I can send money, a lot. You'll always have a well-supplied…" He searched for the word. "... hospital-thing…" He huffed and the word finally popped into his head, "CLINIC. I'll make sure of it. But bringing me back from the dead… it's a forever debt. I don't know if it was worth it."

"Callings have no price tag. When I saw you in the helicopter that brought you to Baracoa, you were covered in soot from the bombing, blackened all over. There was a shine though, that I was told would be there. The _shine_ was a silver necklace catching light. When I wiped off the medal hanging on that chain, our saint was there. I knew you had to be saved."

"I'm not Catholic, you know. I'm quite… un-godly."

"I know. It was a chance that your lover chose you to carry _Santo Pancracio._ But it was love that made you keep it, and God that allowed it to survive the bombing."

The room was quiet and he looked at his hand in hers. "That's a… stretch."

"No. It is not. It is God."

After a moment, he began to ask, "How do I live with—"

 _Everything._

"Focus on the good. On what you believe is right. Your instincts have served you well. You are alive because of them. Your _son_ is alive because of them."

Todd turned to her, eyes confused. "My son...?"

"He told me your history with him. You rescued him from a terrifying place, from a kidnapper. He would have died if you were a… _good…_ man. But because of who you are, your… sicknesses… you were able to reach him. No police could have done it. He is alive because of all those things you hate in yourself."

Todd closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to stop any tears from coming. He was ashamed that the Mother Superior should know any of his ugly past. But he supposed his MK tattoos, all his scars, were ugly enough. She knew a lot. His body itself told the world just how undeserving he was of any grace. What was one more thing?

"Keep following your instincts," she said, smiling, releasing his hand and standing up. Proper and peaceful. The complete opposite of him in almost every way imaginable.

"I will pray for you every day," she said, "for as long as I live." She pressed a warm palm on his cheek, surprising affection, before leaving him alone in the large dining room that had served so many.

He groaned when he heard Jed behind him, "Get up, Pops. Let's go. Come on. Winery."

"Fuck you, you goddamn… Nazi."

Jed grinned and repressed a laugh. The self-imposed silence was over.

"I love you, too, Pops."

"Whatever."

 _Move._

* * *

Jed and Todd had made their way to the beach. It had been weeks since Jed had found his father alive. They sat on the sand, eyes on the horizon, drinking from a shared thermos of water and eating carefully and lovingly prepared sandwiches. They had a date to leave. Another week and they'd be headed to Miami. There definitely had been no sign of Ian Correa and Pedro Moreno had gone home ostensibly to prep for the return of the King…

The sea seemed endless and the tide relentless. Not too long and the water would reach their bare feet. Strange how clear it was up close but so impenetrable from a distance. Todd smoothed the sand, lost in his thoughts.

"I have something to show you," Jed said quietly before reaching into his backpack. He pulled out a couple of pages, printed from Beatrice's office printer. Todd took them, eyes on Jed a moment before squinting and trying to decode what he was reading. Like his talking, he found words on a page sometimes needed time to unravel.

The article was from a regional paper in the states. It was about a neighborhood in New York City that had gotten new life thanks to mysterious bits of artwork that appeared all along a network of rundown alleyways. Red dancing stars. The "trail" ended at the community center in a massive burst of multi-colored stars, all filled in and whole. Same smiles though. Strange smiling simple stars. Kids followed them, groups of seniors, and now… frustrated police. Money poured into the community center, the world a little brighter for one of the more marginalized areas of NYC.

Todd shrugged, "What's this."

"It's Rico."

The name felt like a punch to broken ribs. Todd dropped the pages and huffed hard. "What…. why… I don't understand… why you saying his name, don't say his name to me…" He got up and walked to the water, feeling the coolness on his toes, his feet. Strange how painful it was to suddenly hear his name spoken out loud. Couldn't say why. He watched the clear water rush across his skin.

 _I love you like I love heroin, like I love the streets and that moment when the cold ocean washes my feet on a hot day._

He'd been high when he said those words to Rico, didn't have a specific recall of them. But they'd been memorialized in Rico's sketchbook, Todd remembering them now… scrawled next to drawings of himself, his own ruined body beautiful and strong and sensual… a vision he never could have imagined before Rico. The water rolled up again and he dug his toes into the wet sand.

Jed's voice broke up his thoughts, "He's alive… that's a good thing."

"How do you know… why? What makes you say—"

"The ledger."

Todd turned to Jed, not getting this, brow creased with too much information here, weird, surprising blankness. What ledger?

"That day Téa was taken, you gave me a book in the hospital, a ledger… it was Caro's. I got to know it… sickening shit… but… all over it were these stars. Same stars."

"But to find that article...how?"

"Téa told me about his artwork… that… um…he was good, like really good, the kind of good that won't stay hidden… and she said he actually painted stars in Cuba, up on buildings…and, and ever since we got back home, I look for news about the art world for clues about where he might be because I tried finding him once but he was given something like witness protection according to Bo and so he's impossible to find right now but I look anyway. It's just my habit." He paused, eyes on the horizon again, on the infinity of the ocean.

"Dancing stars." A flash of Rico spinning and spinning in front of Manuel Caro in the basement intruded and also little Alicia, injured and bleeding from Ivan's assault on her in the house, that awful evil house, asking if Todd was going to ask her to dance for him as he wrapped her up in a blanket and ran ran ran stand up don't fall Raquel help her help her and he promised she wouldn't have to dance ever for anyone again and he dug his toes deeper into the sand.

"Yeah," he heard, "They're exactly the same. They're red, kind of stretching, definitely moving. I could see that… but the article called them 'dancing' and it all snapped together, that's exactly what it is, they're dancing and smiling and I kind of figure he drew them after he stole that book."

 _Alone with horrors in his head, reading those words, pictures of kids, tied with stockings on bed posts, dancing like so many others… Violet too, she danced, too, and he sat with that book and drew stars over and over and over and over._

Todd didn't remember the stars. Rico had given him the book when they were still at the beach house, after they'd started sleeping together, showed him the details of the book, after Rico committed to _Blanco,_ after the beating…and all Todd could see were the details and not those tortured stars pretending to smile for a monster about to tear them to pieces.

The two men silenced as they watched the colors in the water beneath their feet.

"Why'd you try to find him? Why do you keep trying to find him?" Todd asked in a soft voice. "You didn't like him too much, I thought."

Jed didn't answer for a bit, Todd turning to look at him. "Jed?"

"Just a connection to you."

The idea of Jed searching for Rico just to connect with his dead _Pops_ kinda broke Todd. Too close to what he did when he lost his mother, how he'd look at the stockings tying _his_ wrists to the bedposts… to connect with her. Digging deeper into his memory that now was easy as opening a toy box, he remembered sleeping with her blue-green sweater, tight, tight, holding it to him after his father would leave the bed, leave the room, going downstairs to get whiskey, sticky skin, wet skin, salt and bitter in his throat… that sweater he'd stuff under his mattress so Peter wouldn't find it, that sweater he'd sometimes jerk off with as a glove or as a soft thing to slide on and rub against until he was shaking with an orgasm all as further _connection_ because Peter had so corrupted Todd's view of love and sex and his very own body and what a parent was supposed to be.

 _Connection with someone you would never see again_ , _never touch again, never hear their voice again. Lost in the forever black._

He pulled Jed into a breathless hug, his mouth on his son's head, tasting his hair damp with sea air and sweat, a man he never knew as a child.

"I'm sorry," Todd said in a soft, grievous tone. "I am so sorry I hurt you, broke your heart that way, that you… needed to do that. I'm so so fucking sorry I put you through all that."

Another kind of grief, Jed thought, hiding in his father's grip, so aware of the miracle of him. Too close to Todd's being dead only a few weeks before today. Days and days they'd been having silly conversations as they huffed up the stairs and back down, as they swatted away mosquitos walking to the winery, making up dialogue that Abram would probably be saying if he could talk and foods they liked and didn't like and politics and books and discovering that they both hated amusement parks and both feeling bad that they never took the kids to roller coasters and shouldn't they because it's kind of metaphorical but no, no, who needs terror when life is so very terrifying… all the talks Jed had always wanted but that the crazy never allowed. This space, here in this convent, these days of getting him better were… _magical_.

"It's okay, Pops, it's okay," he said, tears coming anyway, a different kind of sadness because he knew that the grief would eventually come. That he absolutely would lose his father again one day. Life assured him of this. But Jed pushed that thought out of his head and was left with the reality of being in the midst of a powerful hug of a powerfully dangerous man about to return to a very dangerous place to bring his woman up out of hell into safety.

That his _dangerousness_ was going to save another life.

They separated and Todd gazed at Jed, his hard hand still on his shoulder. "Thank you for finding me," he said. "For coming to the hospital when you did. For daring to talk to me. You are so brave in everything you do. That's your mom. Even today, living how she does…"

Jed laughed, "You mean being a militant prepper with a shitload of guns and canned foods?"

"Michelle is ready, man, for the zombie apocalypse."

Jed laughed aloud because Todd didn't change the serious tone but he was smiling now and rolling his eyes at the madness of Michelle who still lived in the off-the-grid camp up in the West Virginia mountains who still sent letters every now and again. Jed gazed back at his father who smiled without a single bit of sadness or brokenness or any of that brutal history that would never really stop haunting him. His hair was so short and glistened in the light and his face seemed young and the only indication of his history was that scar and the snake at his throat. Hardly anything in comparison to that expression on his face.

 _Just love. Just pure love._

They spent the rest of the afternoon at the edge of the sea, kicking at the waves and searching for fish and collecting shells and colored rocks and yelling freely at the miles and miles of blue and breathing the air of a place they wondered if they'd ever see again once they left.

* * *

Téa stood outside her new headquarters, Method Maker's Inc., her workers inside, moving things around and getting acclimated to the digs, everyone a little giddy. She wore yet another thousand-dollar suit, this one sea-blue and her blouse black as night and as always showed off her body that screamed… _just you try._

Gloria joined her to admire the old triple-story American farmhouse.

"To think the civil war happened miles from here… and now it's a cannabis empire."

Téa chuckled and shook her head. "Not exactly an empire."

"We're doing amazing. I just saw our financials."

 _Our_ financials. Téa was so pleased Gloria had that feeling. _Our._ She did own stock in Method Makers, all the employees did. But to claim it… took a real leap of faith. Belief.

"I suppose." Téa sniffed and adjusted a large-brimmed tan hat she wore to keep the sun off her face. Her sunglasses hid her appreciative gaze at her friend. They'd spent the weekend in bed. Téa knew she should feel guilty. She didn't love Gloria, but she needed her.

 _A connection._

She reached out and held her hand, Gloria quieting at it.

"I shouldn't," Téa started but stopped at delicate fingertips on her lips.

"We talked about this. It's the least I can do for you. You have empowered me beyond words. You have given me the world. I might not survive these college classes you enrolled me in but…. I'm not under anybody anymore and never will be again. You need me to help you through this terrible grief? I am happy to do it."

"Don't you want love? A wife maybe?"

"No, Téa. I will live the rest of my life free and independent and taking whatever lover I want." She grinned proudly. Whispered in her ear, "And right now I am so enjoying _you_."

Téa didn't smile though, just turning and kissing her. "Thank you." Eyes on hers.

Victor came out into the sun, nodding at the other bodyguards who hovered nearby. "Are you ready to go?" He asked.

"Where are you going?" Gloria snapped. "I didn't see anything in your calendar?"

"Off the books, _mí palomacita_ , a meet and greet with Eladio."

"No! What… why?"

"He's going to be our primary grower."

"The contract was that good?! I can't believe you! What does Rolon say! Téa!"

Téa let her rant and rage then stopped her with her own fingertips on her luscious full lips, lips that now knew every flaw and curve of Téa's body, lips that had drawn every gasp and sigh and moan that Téa thought she was capable of.

"All is under control," she said.

"Is it?"

She smiled at the thought of what they might do after the meeting, tonight, in her bed. The children were with Viki, increasingly a routine. Kids spending weekends with their only "grandmother." It wasn't that she suddenly _preferred_ women but that she suddenly _needed_ Gloria. Every sound Gloria made, every look Gloria gave, all her flaws and curves. She needed her like she needed air.

Because every time they fucked, no matter where, in her office, on the roof, at Gloria's cozy cottage, she saw the ghost. And she needed to see him because it wasn't Todd she saw, but _Blanco._

 _You're wasting time, Delgado, fucking like that. Delicious as you may be, and I definitely like what I'm seeing,_ _when are you gonna get Los Muertos to kiss your ring, to give you fealty? When are you gonna get off your back and get to the real fucking?_

She climbed into the car and Victor looked at her in the rear view mirror as she removed her sunglasses. The others followed her in another sedan.

"We have a good picture now of everything _Los Muertos_ has taken over," he said.

"Good. How's it look? Is MK securely in the ground? Dead and buried?"

"Yes, everyone believes MK is a blessed tragedy. And here, on campus, men are happy. Love you and everything you do. They call themselves the Method Men. Even the women have taken up the name."

"The world is run by men, Victor, why wouldn't the women claim themselves as _men?_ We should all be the most powerful of beings."

Victor laughed. "What now, _La Reina?"_

"I think _Los Muertos_ needs a new enemy, don't you think?"

"You mean…. arm the Method Men? They've been a little impatient."

"Arm the fuck out of them, Victor. We'll finish off Eladio and his jokers one corner at a time. Piece by piece. They have no idea what's coming."

Téa took off her hat and powdered her nose, her long dark-brown hair framing her face perfectly. She looked at the cracked mirror in her hand, at the image staring back at her. A line distorted the right side of her face, making her look _monstrous_ , really.

"Let's stop and get flowers. _Diego_ likes roses. Yellow ones."

 **To be continued….**


	17. Chapter 17

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 17**

The sister hurried up the steps, tray in hand, late snacks for their guests. Joella was volunteered by the women to deliver the tray. It wasn't anything unusual. One sister or another often took an evening repast to the tower room.

 _Angel likes you! You take the tray tonight!_

She'd admonished them, reminding them of their decorum.

 _You are acting like schoolgirls. Behave!_

Twittering birds, they all laughed. But the truth was, they found his lingering gazes on Joella life-giving, a sign that they'd done good work at saving him. His attention on her was like wine with their meals, the warmth from the alcohol a similar reminder of their humanness. Joella couldn't argue the point. In mere weeks, he'd gone from a patient on a bed to a man in their house. And he was about to leave their watchful eye.

Nobody felt _unmoved_ by that.

Joella, admittedly, knew the attention was slightly uncontrollable, that he tried not to look. She kept her distance so he would not be tortured with the effort. Even so… he had been an important part of her purpose here.

She had visited the convent as a young girl before it was permitted to be a convent. The place had imprinted itself into her. She fell in love with a boy down the road however and lost her virginity to him… experienced a woman's life… but then had a calling while getting trained as a nurse in Havana. A vision really. She had seen _Santo_ _Pancracio_ , the young martyr, walking among the sick in the hospital she worked out of. She wasn't ill, no fever plaguing her, no inadvertent exposure to drugs either. Yet there he was, shimmering in a heavenly haze and looking at her, hands out. So young! So beautiful! She married God that summer and never looked back. She understood Mother Superior Beatrice when she took in _Angel._ The medal of their precious saint he wore around his neck was a sign.

He needed to be saved. They would not let him die.

She pushed open the slightly ajar door with her hip, huffing a little with her burden. Turning, she saw Jedediah was not in the tower room but that _Angel_ was…

… and he was in the midst of doing pull-ups on the old pipework that ran along the top of the wall. Legs slightly bent, he used his upper-body to pull himself up slowly, inch by inch, certainly an act that called for real strength. He didn't see her because he used the section of piping above the bathroom doorway, and in doing that, he faced the sink, the shower. He had no shirt on and the pajama bottoms he wore were just beginning to slip off his hips with his exertions. Dimples appeared at the base of his spine, the split of his buttocks a bit visible. The sister tried averting her eyes but the sight so differed from months of him in bed, she couldn't do it. She… could not look away.

He'd gained in strength since his recovery, muscles tight now, defined, his shape emitting every bit of dark energy Raquel warned them about. The Grim Reaper and Black Angel on his back suggested the danger he brought… **La Habana X Cuba** , assured it. He pulled himself as high up as he could get, grunting with the effort, holding himself still, as still as he could, until he couldn't anymore and dropped down.

Just as feet touched wood, he startled, spinning around because the tray made noise when Joella settled it on the dresser.

He was so quiet… she wondered if he'd always been so.

 _Angel_ hadn't expected her and he stood in the doorway of the bathroom, panting, his bareness revealing all the ink he'd acquired in his life, all the scars given to him. He was embarrassed, a hand at the waistband of the cotton pants riding low enough to show the hair below his navel, and Joella smiled, apologetic. She knew his body well. She wasn't sure he understood that, that he didn't need to be modest. That she respected every bit of him.

"I am sorry to interrupt you," she said.

He glanced down at himself and blinked at his undress, tightening the drawstring and rubbing at his cut hair, at the scar on his head he could always feel. "It's… fine," he murmured.

The sister turned and moved the pot of hot chocolate off the tray along with the empanadas and sweets prepared especially for _Angel_ and Jedediah, tender affection by the women. They knew the days were almost done, knew they'd done good work.

She stood still because suddenly she felt him close to her, behind her. There was something distinctly animal in his silent approach. Like a predator, like a lion. She heard a soft sigh. She almost smiled because he was life itself, yes? So much inside that had no place to go right now. She wondered if he dared try something. But he was too respectful. Too acknowledging of who she was: a devoted servant of God.

She turned in place and he was closer than she expected, only inches from her. His height forced her to look up, and there she found a hazel-eyed gaze heated in a way he could not disguise. _My God. Such life._ She carefully placed a hand on his hard chest, sensing his heart beat beneath the light spray of hair. Light eyes gentled at her touch.

" _Angel…_ ," she said, a prohibition in the saying aloud of the name he'd been given.

He did not move however. Instead, he reached out and caressed her hair that had indeed escaped the habit.

"You remind me of someone," he said.

He glanced down at her hand and then very delicately put his hand to hers, holding her hand against him, the heartbeat stronger now. Eyes on hers once more.

A fine layer of sweat covered him and the scent reminded her of his first days here, of the permanent sleep he would not wake from. It had been hot those first days and the bandaging and gown overheated him so the women stripped him, discovering the tattoos and the gang affiliation but what affected them more were the scars. They had all looked at each other and felt so sad at things people did to him and one pointed out the cuts on his forearm, "He did that one on purpose, used a blade on himself," and they prayed over him, prayed _for_ him, getting the sense that maybe he didn't want to be saved. And the last point required additional prayers.

She ran fingers down his chest, touching unforgiving muscle, down his belly, ghosting the healing scar where the feeding tube had once been, her eyes downcast. She rested her fingertips on the very top of his pants. She knew what stirred beneath the cotton.

"She is waiting for you," Joella said softly, "I am sure." She didn't dare look at him because she was still human and what he had on _his_ tray was thrice the hot chocolate and thrice the empanadas and sweets. It took everything in her to not touch farther down.

Then he breathed in because he'd been holding his breath and pulled away, leaving the sister's maddening touch, a touch that screamed his Delgado. He sat on the bed.

"Thank you… um… for… for the tray."

"We will miss you, _Angel_. You are like a bird we found in the garden, broken, unable to fly. You can fly now. Fly home."

He shook his head at the description, remembering a certain Red Baron plane and repeated promises that he'd fly just the same one day. He dragged his gaze to her, swallowing audibly. Eyes moving up her body from her leather sandals, mocha-colored legs exposed because today she wore a light-blue cotton skirt and the white blouse had pearl-like buttons and he bit down because dirty thoughts continued to come at him and he could practically taste those pearl buttons in his mouth, resulting in an erection stretching upwards as if his cock had awakened from a hundred-year nap but she was an innocent and married to someone far better than he could ever hope to be… the Savior… God… not that any man or woman could aspire to such perfection, to a kind of existence that wasn't human…

… much less a monster.

 _Own it. Fucking show it._

"In another life," he said, haltingly, "I mighta hurt you. You think I want you like any other man… but… " He paused and glanced around the room. Landed on her again. "I can move now, I'm stronger now. You should go."

"I am not afraid of you."

He smiled at that, at her gumption, and he lit up and darkness seemed to ebb and he was just _Angel_ again but that was not true. It wasn't _possible._

She reminded him of someone.

"You should go," he repeated. "Before I break you."

Life had taught her much and in this moment she knew Raquel was not wrong in calling him the devil. He tempted her and then warned her of exactly what he could do. Would do. Most likely… _did._ She closed her eyes a second or two, tasting the truth in his words, and then… she walked past him and went out the door and hit the steps, heading down.

 _Saved._

He listened until the secret door opened and then shut. Alone in his tower now.

An exiled king.

He lay back on the bed with a huff, achingly hard against all his wishes and for fuck's sake it wasn't going away so he grabbed his cock and as soon as he did a thousand images flew through him, love and hate all mixed up, colors, grays, whites, every inspiration he had ever come across flying through him, and he stroked himself at all of them because life was about to change and he was afraid, desperately afraid, that he'd fail to save the _someone_ and he huffed and thrusted into his fist, ashamed that he could be this way in the wake of the dark-haired girl who was married to God, but it felt good, a high all its own that he _supposedly_ no longer wanted. He groaned at the feel, the thousand images distilling into just one, Téa springing forth, the way she looked when she fucked him on top, her long hair falling and her focused expression, but then Rico too was there, the way he looked when Todd finally fucked him inside, the way he wanted, and Todd groaned at how close he was, so goddamn quick, feet rubbing on the wooden floor, all his muscles trembling as he kept up the sliding grip. He shoved the pants down now because wetness came, making him slick, and he moved his wrist faster and faster and god, _GOD,_ there it was, there it was, _oh my fucking God,_ and he held his breath and the pulses now grabbed him so intensely that tears rolled down his cheeks, heat then streaking his belly, his chest, and he squeezed his flesh, the sensation not ending, and he kept moving and kept thrusting until a second orgasm tore through him, making him moan in a choked way, head tipped back, his palm smashed on his mouth to shut himself up because _god, god,_ he had to be dying.

He then just lay on the bed, spent utterly. Slid fingertips through the wetness and tasted the bitter-salt that spoke to him of a different kind of freedom. Kisses he remembered. He wasn't sure what faced him at home… prison, a Delgado who hated him, maybe a forever-lost Rico that Raquel would never forgive him for. Another death, his own. Maybe there was no path home after all.

 _Truth-pain._

These things derailed the rise of chaos inside. Didn't need dope or cigarettes when the fucking truth existed. He moved off the bed and needed to shower now. Needed to wash away all that _truth_.

He was going home.

 _Fucking hell._

* * *

Téa strolled into her new office, a wonderfully large space on the top floor of the old farmhouse, windows overlooking the great span of sycamores and oaks spread across several acres, summer making everything green and hopeful and hiding the fall to come. Coldness would arrive soon enough.

Jed had been in Cuba nearly an entire month. Unbelievable. He called every few days, this last time repeating a story that he was chasing leads on government corruption that would help Bo Buchanan. Téa controlled her rage, tried to ignore his back-stabbing act of entering a country that burned her husband without her permission…

Nothing but ashes in a box.

Her heart skipped a beat at that thought, a catch in her throat, and she turned back to the windows, her hand suddenly a fist, raindrops of memory hitting her, forcing her to look at the storm clouds where he lived… _no, no, no…_

 _Love is right now. Love is when all the shit goes away. Only with you could I forget who I was. That's what you did for me. You always made me forget. Just for a little while. I wish I could forget long enough to go home._

Fingertips at her lips as she closed her eyes, fighting him hard, fighting so hard to stop him from breaking through _Blanco's_ specter, _no, no, no…._

She focused on the trees, spotting a hawk flying along the tops, a creature in his claws. He landed in the tallest tree, disappearing into the safety of the branches. Must be a nest there. Yeah, a home in those American Revolution trees. She tried breathing in a calm, tried sinking back into herself, the new self she had embraced except there was a new pack of unfiltered Camels on her desk and _Todd_ was there again...

… _no, no, no..._

But memories are relentless and she sees him reclining on their couch after dinner, almost time for Lucia's turn in the bath. Téa had just put baby Reese in bed and she came down the stairs to find Todd watching TV, a silly nothing show, probably a kids show, Téa can't remember, but she does recall standing at the entrance to the family room watching him with Lucia next to him. Téa's heart was so full at the sight, her whole self bursting with love, to see him so relaxed because it had been a hard year of him adjusting to life after prison. She looked at his bare feet on the coffee table, those strong masculine feet of his, curling his toes on the wood like he always did, and he looked so huggable in his favorite worn jeans and long-sleeved tee-shirt, hands behind his head, long hair glistening with silver stands, light eyes on the people on the screen. And then seven-year old Lucia pulls his jacket to her, a heavy canvas jacket that was on the couch, and she struggles with it and he thoughtlessly helps her, eyes still on the TV as she scoots to get under that jacket, scoots to get closer to him, to cuddle with him, but noise gets her attention, a crunching noise, and she finds a pack of cigarettes in the pocket and she knows about cigarettes from school and she yells, holding the crushed pack in her tiny warrior's hand...

 _Papi! These are cancer sticks!_

Téa repressed a smile because he smiled in that memory, saying _Oh no! Are they?!_ And he grabbed Lucia up in his arms and he kissed her neck and cheeks and she was giggling like crazy as he tickled her belly and gave her more kisses, such mad physical love of his baby girl, and she laughed and laughed, loving him so much as little girls always love their strong daddy, and then the cigarettes were forgotten and the two were tight together, the big jacket warming Lucia, both of them watching the show and yes, yes, it was a kids show he'd been watching as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. And Téa saw the cigarette pack on the floor. He'd kicked it under the coffee table so Lucia wouldn't worry about it.

Téa shook herself, shutting it down hard because that was _Todd…_ beautiful strong unkillable Todd, tears threatening to come...

 _No, no, no, oh God, it hurts so much to see you that way._ _Oh amor, you had so much to come home to, oh baby, oh God..._

What Lucia would not know for a long time, maybe not ever, was that he probably smoked only to give himself a reason to light up because what he really needed the cigarettes for was to burn his skin… his wrists, his palm, his belly, and at one time, his cock.

 _For a moment, everything disappears. All I feel is the physical pain. It's relieving._

 _No, no, no… go away. Please. It hurts too much._

Slamming the door shut in her mind, deep inside of herself, stopping him from coming through any more, she cursed, whispering her constant mantra. Shoved the cigarette pack into a drawer. She had them only to remind herself of _Blanco_ so she could hate Todd.

 _No, goddamnit, no. You stay dead you fucking bastard. You left us. You chose hell._

She turned to scan her computer screen where new applications waited for her review. Sniffling and adjusting her position on her ergonomic seat, she saw a good number of regional marijuana dispensaries that wanted to join the Method Makers team. The flow of applications has been steadily climbing. She critiqued every one, searching for hints of organized crime connections. She sent every name associated with the applications to her Llanview PD contact for a screening. Some came back positive—El Salvadoran, Irish, numerous Native American. Japanese, Chinese, and so forth. She axed those currently active within gangs. But the expatriated? She put them in the to-be-considered pile. She needed people with street knowledge who were looking for new loyalties. She clicked and clicked, starting an email with more names to follow up on. Her tears had dried, the box of ashes put away on that shelf behind coats and suits and dresses.

She heard someone clearing their throat so she glanced up, finding Rolon in her doorway with an expression that said he knew about the arming of her workers.

"Go ahead," she snapped. "Lecture me."

"What the fuck, woman!"

Rolon was still Rolon, shaved head, tatted all over, MK and prison tattoos the featured artwork, bulky muscles that said his ex-con status was a mere technicality. He stormed to her desk and she lifted an eyebrow at the gall of him to be so impertinent. He stopped a couple of inches away from the front of the desk.

Téa sat back and crossed her arms.

" _Dígame,_ " she said.

"I just saw a goddamn delivery downstairs and it was Christmas at an Afghanistan army base! What… are… you DOING?!"

"Marijuana is a dangerous industry. My people need protection."

"Some of those people are _felons_. Ain't allowed to carry," he hissed.

"Those who cannot carry a gun get alternative weaponry. I leave it to Victor to make the appropriate determination. He has a management degree from Columbia."

"Yeah?! Well I got a fuckin' incarceration degree and I am saying to you, _mujer_ , that this is a one-way street to Statesville!"

She laughed, her long hair dark and lustrous in the afternoon light, her red lace jacket falling open to reveal her low-cut black silk blouse that had no buttons, no way to stay closed, red screaming the power she wielded, breasts announcing feminine might that will steamroll any opposition…

She pushed her chair back and put an impossibly-high heel on the desk, shiny black sandal. Just the one foot. She showed off her tight black pants, the crotch plenty visible to Rolon. He had to work to not look at any of it and she fucking well knew it.

 _Jesus CHRIST._

"Rolon," she explained in a voice befitting a school teacher, " _Los Muertos_ are out of control and they need to learn their place. Some of my workers are willing to do a little meet-and-greet. I don't know what you're panicking over. Nobody's going to prison. Legitimacy is still my goal here." She kept her hard-as-diamond eyes trained on Rolon.

He shook his head, then dropped his voice, "Is that right? You got _Marcus_ doing this… Marcus was our main enforcer and you know that. That man wouldn't know meet from greet from dead meat!"

"I do not know any such thing. He's got a—"

"A degree in murdering! He was the lead guy we sent to finish off Serrano founders! He ended Irish dealers, Nazi gamblers… Téa!"

"Second chances, Rolon. My god, you are not very progressive. Or Christian. What would Jesus do?"

He huffed, nostrils flaring, skin flushing, and he pulled out his phone, scrolling and tapping until he found what he wanted. He slammed the cell in front of her. She leaned forward, eyes on him a second before looking at the screen.

A black spray-painted **MM3C** on a wall stared back at her. She shrugged. "Ok?"

Leaning on his hands, he said, "That's your people… Method Men Third Circuit."

Another chuckle… "As in… federal circuits? As in... Pennsylvania being in the Third Circuit?"

"Yeah… you inherited a bunch of comedians."

She laughed now, "I'm so honored they recognize my legal credentials. How touching."

"Téa! You are not just draining MK, you are transforming them into your own gang!"

"Stop worrying your pretty head with things you don't understand. How can we be an organized crime syndicate if we're not committing crimes?"

"Tell me this then… your men knock _Los Muertos_ out of say, the river district for drug imports. Who's taking over?"

"I don't know. Whoever wants to fight them. Or hey… maybe nobody! Maybe pushing _Los Muertos_ out of the river district, into say, _the river_ , removes them, period!"

"And how are your men going to push them into the fucking _river_?"

"An offer for them to leave. It's not murder if they just ask them to leave _…"_

"You are saying this with a straight face."

"Yes, I am. And if my people have to defend themselves against these violent dogs after an offer to leave is made, that's not murder, it's justifiable homicide. Self defense."

Those brown eyes stayed on his, eyes bright with heat and determination and in-your-face _hate_. Rolon licked his lips, not sure who he looked at. He scratched at his chest. She was still beautiful, doll-like, still Téa Delgado the brave attorney, the woman he always knew as _Blanco's_ treasure. _Madre de dios_ , she was the love _Blanco_ kept locked out of Statesville and MK for so long, one of the very few things they fought over when Rolon tipped her off that not all was kosher in her husband's world. _Blanco_ made him pay for that.

And yet she wasn't Todd's precious Delgado at all.

He came around her desk and sat on its sharp edge. He looked down at her and dropped a reality she needed reminding of. His old Cuban accent rolled across his harsh words.

"Revenge, _mí Reina,_ killed your husband. Revenge was why he ended up in MK chains. Are you listening, _mamita_? Your revenge against Pedro will get people killed. You… could die."

She got up, got in Rolon's face, teeth gritted, "This isn't _revenge._ This is—" A blast of silence interrupted her. She held his gaze, misty eyes shifting quickly, trying to make him understand...

"What is it," he said softly, "if not revenge?"

"A reclamation."

Tears suddenly spilled over and she stepped back, surprised at them, almost confused by them. "I am taking back all the power he never really had. Power he should have had. Power he gave up. Now… get out. Get the fuck out of my office and get to Victor—use that _degree_ of yours to organize these workers to take back our region."

"How is this different from MK?! How?!"

"How? Because it's ME, you bastard… I am in power now. I am _la madre celestial._ That's how it's different. Now… get... OUT!"

Rolon slowly got to his feet, all that bulk useless. A vase whizzed past him and crashed against the wall next to the door. He spun back to her, eyes on her heaving self. Glared at her before flying outta there. He skipped steps, down, down, his mind completely electrified at what he was dealing with.

When he got to the bottom floor, three of her bodyguards met him in their new outfits. All of them had licenses to carry, all wore black denim, black jackets… and the coup de grâce… masks hanging out of side pockets. Yeah, balaclavas to cover their faces when dealing with less-than-legit people. Less chance of identification if things got dicey. The Queen's edict.

 _Jesus Christ._

Rolon's stomach knotted up and he grabbed Mark by the collar… "Come," he growled, dragging him into the conference room, the guy nearly tripping with all that strength Rolon used. Mark was the one white guy in the security crew guarding Téa. He had short sand-colored hair and was built in a way that reminded Rolon of _Blanco,_ just enough to make his heart ache a little. Big difference was a persistent gentleness despite being an ex-army dude with good fighting skills and a willingness to defend Téa at all costs. It was why RJ picked him. He knew security detail, had a good head on his shoulders, was cool as ice, but he had a puppy-dog heart. He wasn't a big talker either. He never shared his stories of running with Chicago's Jamaican gang most of his life. It's how R.J. knew him… through the Posse.

"You know about her plans to use the workers to take down _Los Muertos?"_

"Yeah."

Rolon grunted at Mark's typical one-word response. "So you just gonna go along with this shit?! Come on, _hombre!"_

With his ever present unflappability, Mark sniffed and said in his laconic way, " _Los Muertos_ needs puttin' down… leastwise… oughta know they could be."

"Oh no," he groaned, cursing a string of Spanish. "You're drinking the Kool-Aid, man."

Mark chuckled softly, "We got her back. She safe." He waved a hand as he walked out, leaving Rolon practically hitting his head against the wall. Téa had asked earlier, just to be the bitch she could be, _what would Jesus do?_

He wondered now… what would _Blanco_ do with Téa? He had no goddamn idea.

Hours later, she descended the stairs, heels hitting the wood like she meant business. Dinner had been brought in for everyone on campus. Delicious Cornish hens and potatoes and greens all by Hank's restaurant. A celebration of sorts. First full week in the new digs.

Téa glanced at her men in the entranceway, all wearing the balaclavas like she requested. She liked the look; they were black and covered the head and lower part of their faces. Cool material, of course, so they wouldn't get too hot in summer. Practically _ergonomic._ Yeah, she definitely liked it. Sent a message to anyone she dealt with that she was not to be fucked with.

"We're off to visit the new grower, _Diego,_ again. Let's go. He's got new strains he wants to share, apparently."

"Eladio is really pushing this _Diego_ shit," Lanzo rumbled.

"Yes, he is. And we don't want to disappoint his little game by revealing the punch line."

"Not sure I get the game though."

"He's hoping to join me, Lanzo. Create some kind of monopoly in the gangland. He's also hoping to fuck me." She snorted, "As if."

The men scrambled.

She'd been there several times already. Tasted the product, toured the facility. Drank wine as they admired the crops. They flirted and she'd let him get close enough so he could imagine what she'd feel like. But then she'd pull away and play Southern damsel.

 _Well, I say, aren't you a delight?_

She was surprised Eladio ran such a clean operation. The only indicator that it was a _Muertos_ production that Téa pretended not to notice were the workers. They were rough. Dark looks to them, lots of swirling face tattoos. Like the man who played that exploding prank on her.

She got into the new SUV tonight, American-made Cadillac Escalade recently arrived from the heartland with its bullet-proof windows and reinforced steel sides, black of course, sharp. She climbed into the back seat, Victor and Mark in the front, Lanzo and Tony in the Cadillac sedan behind, equally armored.

As they drove out of town, her eyes drifted to Mark, noticing the snake tattoo on his neck for the first time. It was almost exactly like Todd's. Funny. She tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to her, his warm eyes crinkling in a smile hidden by the balaclava, light brown she noticed, almost hazel.

"Tell me about your tattoo," she said. "Never noticed it before."

"Black Mamba. Inspired by these MK dudes." He patted Victor on the arm, Victor giving a don't-you-know-it nod, Mark turning back around to face the front. He wasn't MK but he was experienced enough with the dark world of organized crime from growing up in Chicago on the southside.

Téa sat back, watching the passing cityscape. Snakes could be so very dangerous. Such poison in their bite.

Later, as she sniffed the buds offered up by one of the agricultural workers and read a report by scientists on the premises, Eladio, who did not know Téa already knew who he was, asked her about their new uniforms.

" _Why the face coverings?"_

She smiled seductively and shrugged, _"You never know when lack of recognition might be useful."_

He laughed but it hadn't been an easy one.

And she liked _that_.

* * *

Before Jedediah left, he sat with Todd in the Sanctuary, just the two of them. They had decided to travel separately. Safer for both. Less chance for recognition.

"I'm afraid I'll never see you again," Jed said.

Todd wanted to promise him, wanted to argue, but he knew better. The fucking fates had a way of intervening in things. People got kidnapped, dealers showed up with drugs, lovers did the unexpected. He looked at his beautiful boy, the words stuck in his throat. Finally, he simply said, "I'm getting on that plane."

Jed nodded, "I know. Still." Then after a moment, he said in a quiet heavy voice. "Things are gonna be hard for you, Pops. I'm kind of worried about that. Moms isn't the same. You gotta understand."

Smiling sadly, Todd heard something else in Jed's words. Something not related to Téa. The days with Jed had been kind of blissful, endless hours together, hard physicality but wonderful. Strange to get to know his son this way. Jed was a fucking force in his own right. Todd couldn't deny he was humbled by it. He'd say _proud_ , but he didn't earn that word. Jed's strength and level-headedness had been built into him the way smoothness is built into wood: through sandpaper. And Todd was the opposing force that had done it. And who did Jed mostly know?

A heroin addicted father.

Yeah, all these years and Jed had never been around an entirely sober father. Until now.

 _Things are gonna be hard…_

He wasn't talking about Téa, he was talking about fucking dope. He couldn't explain how he felt these days. Too many words. And like the promise to see him at home? He couldn't promise heroin wouldn't be in his life again. He was an addict and just because he had truth-pain to derail _hard things_ , didn't mean shit.

He pulled him into a tight hug, a hug that tried to be assuring, a hug that swore sobriety. A hug that said, _I'm never going to hurt you again. I'm going to be the angel daddy you tried to find when you were just sixteen on that motorbike._

 _Get on, Pops. Where you wanna go Pops?_

He closed his eyes and fought tears for his boy. Whispered, "I love you." He pulled away and just studied Jed. "I can't believe… you… um... found me."

"A fucking miracle. It's uh… gonna be something explaining it. The kids…?"

"Eh…. I've come back from the dead before." He nodded and eyed the Savior. "People are weird a while and then… they wish I stayed dead." He chuckled but it wasn't a joke.

"Dad, don't you dare think about it. I mean it. You're making me nervous."

"I'm coming home."

The front door creaked open and Raquel came to them. "Taxi is here."

The two men looked at each other and Todd gave him one last hug. "Home," he said. "I'll see you there. Go. Go!"

Jedediah grabbed his bag and Todd followed him out, Abram at his side. All the sisters met them, hugged Jed, final words of advice, a few tears. Raquel held him for a long time. Nodded at him. "Be strong," she said in English, for him. Jed gave his Pops one last look and then he was off.

Nothing was easy in it.

Todd's turn would come next. Everything was set. Papers looked good. He was taking his dog with him. Abram was his only traveling partner.

The convent settled after a bit, everyone back to their jobs, cleaning, working the clinic, the winery. Todd had a knife in his gut as he walked to the garden behind the clinic. He walked the rows, seeing the radishes, lettuce, and potato plants. He still had a slight limp, but it had lessened. He noticed if he tried, he could cover to the point where it was almost not noticeable at all. But if he was tired, it was there. A signature. Raquel said the surgery he had to repair a broken hip revealed scar tissue from the stabbing in Statesville. Doctor cleaned that mess up. He shook his head at the small blessing. Too bad his epilepsy hadn't been similarly repaired. Still needed meds.

He moved all the way to the back and sat on a bench near the struggling citrus trees. Weather and soil made life difficult for the oranges and lemons. _La Gata_ hopped up onto his lap and he pet the grey tabby, and she loved it and he smiled. Found himself tearful, missing Jed already and knowing he'd miss this place.

For all the hate that filled him up, _Las Hermanas de la Misericordia_ had given him a lot of love and patience and faith. Everyone that helped him recover gave everything of themselves. He'd seen true goodness in the sisters and of course, in Raquel. He hoped some of that goodness stuck to him.

Right now though… _he_ needed faith. Faith that the world for once would work in his favor.

 _Yeah, dear fucking God… let me at least get there._

He didn't ask that _home_ would be given back to him.

 **To be continued...**


	18. Chapter 18 — Intervalo

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 18**

Todd stood in the tower room, a small bag next to him partially filled with items for Abram. He also had an extra pair of jeans in there, an American brand the sisters excitedly presented to him, a couple of plain black tee-shirts, American-style boxer shorts, an ivory-colored _guayabera_ with intricate embroidery from Raquel, a light jacket from Anna to keep him warm like the wine kept him warm, socks to go with the sneakers he now wore, and a Bible that was inscribed by Beatrice which said, " _Believe, Angel._ "

The little gifts brought tears to his eyes since no monster deserved such love. He said goodbyes at dinner, hugs all around, lingering looks at Beatrice and Raquel and Maria and Anna, Abram getting lots of affection and hugs and treats.

Raquel whispered, "Find him," and he swore he would.

He chose to leave close to midnight, wanting to get into that taxi alone. He couldn't bear saying goodbye anymore. Wanted simply to pretend it was just another Havana night and he'd be returning to the sisters when the party ended.

But mostly he chose the midnight hour because he needed to hear the songbird and her sorrowful song one more time. She was the first thing he'd awakened to in that room and he wanted her to be the last thing he saw before leaving what he believed was most likely forever. He sat in the wheelchair throne and watched her sing, her chest puffed, tiny beak pointed towards the night sky, tiny claws gripping the bamboo perch. The words to her dirge he had imagined early on had long disappeared, a language he no longer understood. But her tune still broke his heart. He figured the words were somewhere inside of him… and maybe one day he'd remember them.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know they are beautiful. Fuckin' poetry."

One of the questions he did recall ruminating over while in his half-awake state was if the little yellow songbird could live outside the cage. He called her a canary and for the life of him he couldn't remember ever seeing canaries in the wild. Maybe she was doomed to live in sorrow the rest of her days.

 _Caged._

When Jedediah arrived though and they started taking daily walks to the winery that soon turned into explorations of the jungle around the convent, Todd saw birds just like the little canary. They lived in very specific yellow-green shrubbery, a kind of bush that grew in the thickest part of the jungle only and hugged the palm trees and banana trees, bushes protected from the elements by the tall, bendable trees. He saw the yellow fluffs zipping from bush to bush, saw quickly that their yellow feathers allowed them to hide in plain sight, camouflaged.

Todd first noticed them by their song, totally recognizing the daytime notes his canary sang. He'd stopped cold at the sound and Jed asked, _What's wrong, Pops?_ Todd didn't answer and followed the notes he was sure he had heard in his tower room. And when he wound his way deeper into the trees, he was right: the tunes were identical. From behind a palm, he caught them mid-flight, hopping, hopping, dancing on the branches. He watched them for a long while, Jed staying a distance away, tears burning, his heart positively breaking. Someone from the convent must have caught the little thing and caged her. Could have been because she was hurt. He'd seen her fly though, a little, in that cage. Made him think…

 _You lost your way, didn't you? And in that, you lost your love. Someone rescued you. Saved you. Until you were better, could more easily find the path home._

He reached over and unlocked the cage door. Watched the bird hop from perch to perch, her song still going, the midnight poem she sang every night.

"Go," he said softly, "go on. They're just past those trees, you can't miss them. They're singing your song. I think your love is there."

The little songbird got to the edge, where the door lay open, the window beyond the cage… open.

"Go," he said. "Go home."

The night sky lit the jungle, moonlight, starlight. Life buzzed in the distant dark and sighed and fluttered and cawed. And without much fanfare, without a look back, the songbird took a step and flew into that love-awaiting night.

 **To be continued...**


	19. Chapter 19

**Caged: Reclamation**

 **Chapter 19**

Getting out of Baracoa was uneventful. Todd took a taxi, getting in with his bag and pup a little after midnight. He refused to take a last look at the convent because he really did think he might burst into tears, that emotional control still absent. He then drove across the mountains through the night to the airport near Guantanamo Bay. There, he met the pilot who worked with Beatrice that was to fly him to Havana.

Dawn had not broken yet.

Father Paolo had expected a tall, brown-haired man traveling with a black pit-bull terrier. He understood this was the patient from the bombing though he was never to say that aloud to strangers or confirm to anyone who asked that he had delivered a barely-alive patient covered in soot to Mother Superior that one night, long ago. Hard to believe the man survived. He certainly did.

 _Angel_ walked with only a slight limp… the only indicator he had ever been a patient at all. He dressed in classic American clothing: light-blue Levi's, black Adidas, white tee-shirt, and an open flannel he used as a jacket of sorts. He carried a black Nike duffel bag slung across his shoulder. The beginnings of a beard, short hair beginning to flop to the side, and a scar on his cheek, gave him a rugged look. He walked confidently, shoulders back, head up, purpose in his step as he made his way to the hangar where the 1958 cargo plane sat ready for its early morning flight. The dog had a similar air about him.

"Um… _Padre Paolo?"_

His voice betrayed him—he sounded slightly unsure, maybe even nervous.

The priest smiled and shook the man's hand. "Hello, _Angel_. It is a miracle of God that you are here."

 _Angel_ returned the kind welcome and acknowledgment with a slight nod, a serious gaze, and a glance at his dog.

"Thanks to _Las Hermanas_ ," he clarified.

Paolo smiled wryly, "As I said, God."

That got a genuine smile, eyes warming at the clever use of his words against him. The Father then gave the man a pat on the back and took the leash and before long, they were airborne. When they parted in the Havana airport after the two hour flight across the island of Cuba, the priest gave _Angel_ a blessing, a prayer, making the sign of the cross on _Angel's_ forehead.

"May He deliver you safely, my friend."

Questions floated in gentle light eyes and the _Padre_ said, "I believe _for_ you."

Later Father Paolo would get on his knees and pray for the man he only knew as _Angel_ , a very dangerous man he'd been told. The snake tattoo suggested the story to be true. However, if he was the devil, then he was for certain a fallen angel. Paolo had never seen such honest vulnerability in a man like him for when he stepped into the morning light, he turned and said, "I hope your belief… _works."_ He did not trust the world or God and from the tone… he wished he could.

After a needed visit to a decent plot of weeds for Abram, business tended to, water given, Todd ambled to the terminal that handled chartered flights for international destinations. Pedro booked the trip specifically with the purpose of hiding Todd. He'd be traveling with a tour group from the university and Todd was dressed just as a Cuban national would imagine an American to dress. Everything he wore the sisters had gotten from the black market and everything was a knock-off except for the Levi's.

 _Only speak to Americans or Canadians or Brits,_ Pedro suggested, _because_ _Spanish sounds the same to them no matter who speaks it._ Though Todd's Spanish was passable, he did have a bit of an accent natives recognized as likely American. The sisters often argued about this, some saying he sounded like the children of European residents, that nobody would doubt he was born here but raised by English speakers.

 _You mean raised by hoodlums!_

Yeah, yeah, his style of Spanish sounded like Cuban convicts because... obviously. He cursed a lot, lazily dragged his vowels, and his grammar was for shit. His American accent wouldn't matter normally but it was a red flag since he carried a Cuban passport. No such thing as naturalization but for very few and Americans were not on that special list. So... he'd have to have been born in Cuba to get that passport and no Cuban-born adult still living in Cuba would have an American accent. So…

… _don't talk to Cubans once you reach Customs._

For the record, Pedro did not get him an American passport because he didn't have the connections for it and he did not want Customs siccing the full force of the U.S. of A. in scanning a forged American passport.

Cuban national he'd be, then.

Todd walked to the counter, Abram at his side, to show his ticket and passport and now his nerves came to life. _Jesus Christ_ … would the identification get pegged as forgery right off the bat? Would his fucking picture be posted on walls in every international law enforcement agency? Why didn't he dye his hair and wear contacts and maybe a baseball cap…

Oh _FUCK._

And this wasn't even the hard part.

 _You got that right._

The woman at the counter looked at the dog and smiled and asked if Todd brought food for the darling. He nodded and felt sick to his stomach because the attendant studied his passport with a furrowed brow like something was wrong so he played up his nervousness. No choice. He could NOT cover.

 _Dear God please please please no no no…_

In Spanish, trying to use as few words as possible, he asked, _"What are you doing with him?"_

He squatted down to kiss Abram and pet him, his eyes closing briefly, hoping like hell his nervousness came off the way he wanted it to. He flashed fearful eyes at the attendant.

" _Ah… you have not flown with your dog before?"_

He swallowed and shook his head, _"Nah."_

Another attendant came to the counter and she reached for Abram's leash, her hand out. _"I will take him—"_

" _He cannot stay with me?"_ He bit his lip as he stood back up and rubbed his heart, sweating now, his heart racing. The one with that passport was clicking away at the computer. Kept checking the passport against his ticket.

The dog attendant smiled sadly, " _Do not worry, sir. Your dog will be fine. And so will you. Now please, the food for….?"_

" _Abram,"_ he grumped. He thought for a second to flirt a little, to maybe get the attendants to like him but then he realized they might remember him, the idea making him more nervous. Maybe they'd remember him anyway, his scar noticeable, the dog noticeable, whatever accent he had in Spanish noticeable…

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _Fuck!_

Abram whimpered as he gave the bag of food to the attendant who then put a tag on Abram's collar. She handed Todd a receipt and headed off through a door, leash in hand, and he ached at that, panicked at that.

He looked at the attendant with his passport and pleaded, _"Miss, please, my dog…do not lose him."_

" _No worries, sir. We have only lost one pet this year but that was because the mom and dad did not treat the dog for an illness he already had."_

She stamped the ticket and handed him back his passport and smiled. " _Through that gate. Your group is already there. American customs will process you in Miami. Bon voyage!"_

He gave a nod and stuffed the papers into his bag, huffing a _thank you_ and rushing to the gate. He wondered what the problem was with the passport. Prayed to GOD that scrutiny didn't get repeated at American Customs.

 _That ain't nothin'._

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _Prison for a bombing._

Prayed traveling at peak time, landing in Miami at 11:00 a.m., would actually help him enter the U.S. undetected. Any airport on a Saturday morning was mad-packed and Miami International was notorious for their long Customs lines.

 _That ain't gonna matter. All the hours in a line ain't gonna matter._

Pedro assured him on the phone a few days before he left, "My son, I know that airport, I know how the agents behave when there is a crowd. They are pressed for time. Nothing in the paperwork will get their attention."

 _The paperwork ain't the problem._

While the forged passport was near flawless and computer records would be clean thanks to Pedro's contacts… any more digging would show _Angel Victor_ died in Baracoa in 1998 at the ripe old age of 74. He was terrified of that… more digging.

 _That's not what's gonna get you._

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _Fuck!_

He walked into the wait area and collapsed on a seat, tired and stressed, definitely thinking of a hotel as soon as he got to Miami. He had American cash to cover the days of travel, a good amount but nothing crazy. Yeah, the idea of a bed and good old American pizza ordered in sounded heavenly.

 _If you get there._

The group surrounding him was lively and ready to begin an East Coast tour. University types so they argued over sights to see, pointing out bits of an itinerary, laughed excitedly, and Todd sweated at the whole thing, having no idea how the hell he'd get out of this if someone recognized him or caught on to the forged passport and visa. He wanted to puke on the floor right here, right now.

 _That paperwork ain't the concern, Señor Cabron._

He checked the clock and it read 9:00 a.m. Two hours from now and he'd be landing in Miami. If all went smoothly, he'd then rent a car and make the two-day drive up the coast to Llanview, Pennsylvania. Staying in Miami though would make it a three-day trip. Abram had proper papers, no forgery needed, so he didn't expect any issues there.

Then Pedro's house. He had no goddamn idea what he'd do next.

 _Just get there._

He needed water or else he really would throw up. Digging into his bag, he found a small bottled water and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and he felt like a homesick child at the sight. Tears welled as he sucked the water down. He then carefully brought out the chicken sandwich: roasted chicken and home-grown lettuce on the convent's homemade bread. He wiped his eyes hard, hoping nobody noticed the big tough guy in the corner crying like a baby.

He hunched forward and slowly ate. Every bite hurt to the core. He'd never taste this bread again, never see the sisters again, never see their prideful looks when they watched him eat something new that they made or when he wore something they gave him… a hundred such things about them.

He had never in his life felt this way. Couldn't remember any parting that—

He paused… yeah, the closest was leaving his mom's cabin when he was nine, the last time he saw her alive, but he didn't know that then. He knew the world _now._ And because of all he knew, he wanted to get up, get his goddamn dog, and go back to his tower room where nobody could hurt him, judge him, threaten him, kill him.

But also… unlike the time in the cabin...

… at the Convent he couldn't hurt anyone. There, the monster was well locked up, truly caged. And no, he would never have touched Joella and wouldn't have killed Pedro anywhere on the convent property. Ok?

 _Whatever. Fuck you._

The only things that stopped him from going back was Téa and the promise to Jed that he'd see him in Llanview. He had to get home...

He ate the last bite, then folded the wax paper like a revered treasure map, a reminder that if all went to shit he had a place to go. Beatrice had promised he could return and live the rest of life as _Angel_. He would be forever welcomed.

He bent over and slipped the paper into the Bible Beatrice had given him. That's when he noticed another small bottle there and picked it up. Sandy dirt in an empty glass soda bottle. Green glass. He twirled it, holding it up to the light. Saw a note.

He unscrewed the cap and took out the paper and swallowed hard at all the signatures of the sisters with little wishes and he could practically hear the whispers and giggles because this was kind of improper, their work acts of God and their names suggested vanity. He caressed the names, doing his own roll call, Beatrice's name printed in Maria's hand. He figured the soil came from the garden. He carefully tucked the bottle away. Wiped away stubborn tears.

No, no, he never felt like _this_ before and he couldn't even name what he felt. See, the convent spoke to _Todd_ and _Todd_ was a broken soul, would always be a broken soul and unearned kindness was the thing that brought him to his knees except right now… he needed to be the monster. He needed to be _Blanco,_ the bastard separate being Téa believed in so deeply, like Jed, the way Jed believed, that she shot him, would have killed him if it wasn't for R.J. Gannon.

But goddamn… he didn't feel like a monster right now.

The announcement boomed across the waiting area and everyone started gathering their stuff and Todd's stomach jumped because in less than two hours he'd be facing the biggest hurdle… fucking United States Customs and Border Protection.

* * *

Todd re-settled into his window seat after a visit to the bathroom. The two young women in the aisle and middle seats were re-buckling themselves. They were 15 minutes from beginning their descent and then they'd be landing in Miami. Todd looked out the window and saw nothing but the blue of a seemingly unmoving ocean.

He had tried to catch a few winks but turbulence made it impossible. He didn't much mind it but the young woman next to him very much minded and she grabbed the seat in front of her and when she did he saw cuts all up and down her wrists. Repeated thin lines from a razor blade. A cutter. That usually came from trauma. Learned _that_ from all the hospitals he'd been in, learned what he did with the cigarettes was another form of cutting. Had a hard time looking away.

When the shaking stopped she realized how visible her forearms were, the sleeves having slipped up. She sat back and put her sleeves back in place. She couldn't be more than fifteen or something and she kept trying to pull those sleeves down. Clearly wished she could disappear.

Todd finally put his hand on hers, saying automatically, thoughtlessly, in Spanish, " _It is who you are. It is okay. No shame."_

Letting her go, he then put his left hand on the armrest, palm up, and pushed his own sleeve up, revealing the burn marks he'd done to his wrists that had permanently scarred. Heroin track marks followed, dark markings in between tattooed tadpoles. Slipped the sleeve further down and the beginning of his psychotic break showed up. He gazed at her as she delicately touched the scars, the barest of touches.

" _It does not matter what people think_ ," he said quietly. " _You are a survivor. You do not have to hide the injuries."_

She looked at him sorrowfully, seeming to recognize a kindred spirit, and then nodded. Todd fixed his sleeve, returning to watch the water coming up fast. The pilot came on and announced their imminent landing.

The girl tapped his arm and when he turned, she asked, " _Have you visited Miami before?"_

He shook his head, looking at her again, " _No, have you?"_

" _No, I am here to visit my aunt while my mother tours the states. A month I will be here. I left my friends. I did not want to come."_

" _It's exciting, I think. I want to see if the clubs are like in Havana."_

She laughed, _"Nothing is like Havana."_

" _You are probably right."_

After a few minutes of more ocean-watching, he felt another tap on his arm. He turned and she asked quietly, " _What did you survive?"_

Too many words required. The question was huge and provoked a dispute as to whether or not he survived. Did he?

" _Monsters."_

That resonated. Asked, " _How do I kill them?"_

" _Tell the truth about them. To the strongest person you know. The most powerful…"_

She nodded yet again. They didn't talk anymore. He knew what he said. He implied she should tell another monster.

 _What are their names, mari? Tell me._

The plane landed and rolled into the bay to disembark. He hoped Abram was ok. Another layer of scrutiny but Pedro suggested it was the opposite… more chaos… less chance of getting spotted. Guaranteed there'd be numerous wealthy ladies trying to get their babies out of quarantine.

 _If you get there._

The girl stood up, smiled thoughtfully, waved goodbye, and scooted away with a family member. He hoped she could get to the right monster. That's all he could do.

 _Hope._

He moved over and stood to get his bag. His heart raced and he knew he had to knock it off or he was going to be responsible for his own fucking downfall. Be confident. Be a fucking Cuban national with a perfectly regular passport and visa and here on a tour. Be the goddamn monster.

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _Fuck!_

* * *

He waited in the interminably long line for Customs, no special area for the chartered plane. When he'd flown back and forth before, he sometimes used Pedro's hired jet and the landing spot was different, fewer people, and he always picked low-traffic times. This was Saturday crazy.

He was legitimately anxious to get Abram but also crazy nervous all over again. Sick-nervous. He'd never done anything like what he was about to do. An officer passed by and Todd asked about his dog which he used as a cover for his on-fire nerves. Officer said in Spanish that the kennel was to the right, down the hall, follow the signs, once he got through Customs.

Todd purposely moved away from the charter plane tour group. Picked a line with a lot of British people. Didn't want any Cubans catching on that an American had a Cuban passport. Found himself studying the people, trying not to be obvious. He wondered if he'd see anyone he knew. Worried he would. Suddenly it dawned on him that Miami was probably the last place he should stay overnight. Too many Cubans.

 _Cubans mean MK_.

 _Worry about that later._

 _That ain't nothin'._

He spotted the next step in this fucked-up journey, the REALLY hard part of today. The thing that sent him spiraling. Straight ahead lay the machines that were going to catch him.

Fingerprints and facial recognition cameras. Yeah. High-powered biometric technology.

 _Fucking hell._

 _Prison for a bombing!_

He and Pedro talked about this. They could have avoided it by getting a smuggler to sneak him across the border using under-the-radar boats. Or get a raft and risk the sharks. The length of time getting across the ocean and risk of awful things happening made those impossible choices. Pedro also could have used his private jet and _then_ smuggled Todd off the plane.

All those possibilities carried another problem: the only people Pedro knew to do the smuggling were gangland operatives who would have recognized dead _Blanco_. News would have traveled fast that the King was headed home. And _that_ was no good because _that_ would cause more chaos in an already chaotic environment.

This left fooling the machines as the better choice. It was the fastest way onto American soil but also the fastest way to prison.

Fingerprints were easy. He had silicon fingertips Pedro had his people make for him. They would work. All ten fingers based on computer-generated fingerprints. He'd put them on in the plane. He was okay with this. Not a problem. His people knew their shit. The prints would be of a person unrecognized by any system in the world.

The picture… that system had to be fooled as well. This wasn't as easy. Two things he did. First, he put a specialized shimmering lotion on his light beard that would trick the camera using light, misdirecting the camera about the shape of his chin and cheeks. Second, a silicon piece on the bridge of his nose that would once again trick the camera. This he also put in place before leaving the plane. His one bathroom trip. The young girl hadn't noticed anything so at least he knew the prosthetic didn't draw attention.

With those things in place, the resulting picture, like the fingerprints, would theoretically not get recognized by any system because that person did not exist.

 _Angel Victor_ was a country bumpkin from Cuba who had no life. He was entirely off the grid. If all went well, Todd Manning would still be dead and not caught crossing into the United States.

It _should_ work.

This… is what had his nerves on fucking fire.

He moved up in line and soon faced the machine. He had to be very cool. Couldn't hesitate because innocent people have no reason to hesitate. He breathed and fumbled for the passport. He then placed it on the machine and it gave him the okay symbol. Great. He swallowed hard and now he needed to scan his fingerprints. He put his right hand on the screen. He hardly breathed.

The machine scanned his hand.

Got the ok symbol.

It asked for the left hand. He repeated the process. He held his breath as the scanner's light crossed the screen. Got the ok symbol.

Now the camera. A light went on and the screen directed that he get closer to the camera. He breathed in and slowly released his breath.

 _Tranquilo, Blanco, tranquilo._

He heard Raquel's voice in his head, his eyes watering.

 _Prison for a bombing._

Click.

Tears welled over with the purest fear he felt in a long time.

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _Another death._

 _Lots of different deaths, Jed._

The okay symbol flashed on the screen.

He huffed and felt all his strength roll out of his body. The machine would now be analyzing all that shit. He'd know when he got to the agent if the tricks worked.

 _Fucking hell._

He stumbled as he backed away from the machine and he grabbed up his passport at that. He was sweating. He picked up his bag and rubbed his face, wiping the stress-tears, the prosthetic bridge coming off. He stuffed it into his pocket.

 _Prison for a bombing prison for a bombing prison for a bombing._

As he stood in line once again, he reminded himself of why he was here.

 _Téa Delgado._

 _I'm tryna save your life, woman. Jesus fucking CHRIST._

Soon enough, he was at the desk and he was goddamn shaking with fear. Couldn't stop it, couldn't control it. He would soon know if the low-tech tricks worked.

He took out his papers, his passport. Handed them to the officer, a stern-looking man. In Spanish, clearly an American, he asked, " _Pleasure or business?"_

" _A tour. To New York."_ He sort of smiled, not sure he smiled, sweat prickling on his neck and back. Then with a made-up accent, said in English, "Sta-choo of Leeb-air-tee!" He almost shouted in a kind of madness, wanting to scream the words in a Tourretic fit...

 _Prison for a bombing fuck shit cunt prison for a fuck shit bombing twat prison for a fucking bombing_

 _FUCK!_

"Okay, okay," the officer said. " _How long are you here for."_

" _Two weeks."_

" _Where are you flying in from."_

" _La Habana."_

" _Are you travelling alone."_

" _With a group."_

" _Are they here."_

" _I am meeting them tomorrow."_

" _How much cash are you carrying."_

" _A thousand dollars?"_

" _Do you have anything to declare."_

" _No."_

All memorized questions that didn't sound like questions.

And then… the officer looked at the computer screen and he got that same look the ticket attendant got. Looking closely at the passport. Looking at Todd. Looked at the screen. Clicked keys on the computer.

Todd interrupted him, " _I am worried about my dog. I want my dog."_

The officer looked up, "Dog? What dog?"

Getting a stricken look on his face, " _I brought my dog on the plane. Please… where is my dog?"_ Added accented English. "Please?"

Another officer must have seen the distress on Todd's face, heard it. Clearly understanding him, she said, "He traveled with a dog. He's asking where he can retrieve it." No accent. Todd kept his eyes on the first officer, pretending not to understand that she was referring to him. He could hardly breathe.

 _Prison for a bombing fucking shitting cunting prison fuck for a fuck shit bombing._

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _FUCK!_

" _My dog?"_ He repeated to the first officer who still had a fucked-up look on his face as he studied the passport and the screen. " _Please, sir, sir, where is my dog?"_

The first officer looked at Todd and then said to the other officer, "My Spanish is sort of crap so can you tell him?"

She nodded and then moved closer to Todd. " _Sir? Your dog is safe. As soon as the paperwork clears, you can pick him up. The kennel is down the hall. Over there. See?"_

Heavy American accent. He was relieved. She wouldn't hear _his_ accent most likely. But they both might hear his admission.

 _Prison for a bombing fuck prison goddamnit horseshit prison bombing Havana prison bombing fuck shit horse dick hell!_

 _FUCK!_

He looked at her as earnestly as he could manage.

" _Thank you… to the right? There?"_

" _Yes, the kennel."_ Then she said the word in English. "Kennel."

"Ken-nel," he repeated with his made-up accent. As if he was learning that word for the first time.

 _FUCK!_

The officer shrugged, distracted enough. Said to the other officer. "Does this picture look like him?"

Todd froze, his lungs actually seizing. His heart pounded against his chest, the pulses banging in his head, loud as fuck. He glanced down instinctively to hide his face but he knew that was like pulling out a gun but he had to do something because he felt all the blood drain from his face and pool in his bladder and he thought for a moment he might piss himself. He breathed.

 _Tranquilo_ , _Blanco, tranquilo._

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _Prison for a bombing._

 _Fuck hell horseshit twat!_

 _FUCK!_

He breathed and worked to keep his expression the same as it was seconds before they mentioned the picture, yeah, he was concerned for the dog, looking at the officers and not his passport that lay open on the desk like a frog awaiting dissection because of course he wouldn't understand what the guy just said. He chewed his thumb nail and studied the hallway, whispering, "Ken-ell, ken-ell."

The female officer shrugged at the first one, "Of course. Look at the scar. Same scar. Of course it's him. The cameras are perfect." She then said in her Spanish, " _Sir? Have you ever left Cuba before? Visited other countries?"_

Todd shook his head, his voice caught in his throat.

"See? He's not in the system. It's clean."

Todd swallowed, gazing back at that hallway, craning his neck, trying desperately to see down that hall where his dog would be. "Ken-ell?"

The second officer smiled, "Yes, the kennel. _Your dog is there. Show them the papers for the dog."_

The first officer then gave up the closer look. Glanced at the massive line of people behind Todd. "Okay, you're cleared." He handed Todd back the passport. In his very accented Spanish, said, " _Welcome to the United States. Enjoy your stay."_

Practiced phrase. Just like those questions. Says the phrases over and over again.

 _Prison for a bombing prison for a bombing prison for a—_

 _Not today, bitch!_

Todd stuffed his papers into the bag, making like he was too anxious to get to his dog to say a _thank you_ and hoofed it down the hall, heading towards the kennel. Sweat rolled down his back, tee-shirt sticking to him like glue, wet like he'd just run a marathon. Saw a bathroom… went in… saw a free stall… jumped on that… slammed the door closed... locked it… dropped his bag… spun on his heels and…

… vomited whatever was left of that sandwich and water.

 _Oh my fucking GOD._

He made it.

 _Holy SHIT._

 _Thank the goddamn Lord._

He spat the last of sour saliva into the bowl and leaned back on the bathroom's metal wall, tears forced out and rolling down his cheeks, shaking like crazy. Panting, he reached for the saint on his neck and pressed the bit of imprinted metal with his fingers.

 _There are all kinds of deaths, Jed._

* * *

Todd passed the papers to the attendant in the kennel, papers impeccable, and in less than ten minutes, he saw his pup pulling on the leash and happy. When they brought him through the door, Todd dropped his bag and squatted down and hugged his dog as tight as he could. He could have cried right then and there.

A few feet away, Todd heard the attendant say to someone. "I always love when they pick up their babies." She was clearly touched by his loving up of Abram…. except she had no idea that she just gave "baby" to a goddamn border-jumping terrorist that blew 13 pedophiles to Kingdom Come. The king of Hell… resurrected.

He then took a breath, tore away from Abram, and picked up his bag. The two walked out of the kennel, and when they hit the sidewalk outside the building, Todd couldn't deny he felt kinda invincible. He smiled and closed his eyes to the sun a few moments, thinking of the Cuban sea cooling his hot bare feet.

 _See ya, suckas!_

He was too drained to go very far. Miami motel it would be. He walked to the rental place for a car that would take him up the coast. He looked at grinning Abram and asked him in English because he no longer needed to play a Cuban national on TV, "What kinda wheels you want?"

The kid behind the counter got on his toes and looked at the black pitbull. The kid smiled. "He needs a Jeep. Top down. Head out the window."

"Let's do it."

Todd paid the fee and paid for insurance. Asked the nice guy behind the counter to help him find a motel that took dogs and was on the beach. Kid did exactly that. Found a two-star place called Miami Palms. Gave him a map.

"Take that tram over there. It'll take you right to the lot."

He did just that. Took him a minute to remember how to drive and where the fuck he was on that map. But as soon as things got right in his head, Todd drove out of there with his American-forged driver's license. Yeah, one last piece Pedro got to hide Todd in plain sight.

 _Angel Victor_ was also an American.

Two hours later he was on a bed with a coin machine that could give him a massage and his dog snoring a storm right next to him. He sucked down the rest of the Coors beer and put the empty on the nightstand. Sniffed as he studied the burner cell phone he bought from the motel out in the lobby. It gave him an idea as to what kind of motel this was. The humidity reminded him of Baracoa. The pizza he chewed reminded him of a million other pizzas he'd been eating since he was five.

He dialed a number written down for him.

"Hello?"

"I'm here. I got through Customs."

Pedro Moreno dropped to his knees in his living room. Raised his eyes to the heavens. "Praise God, my son."

"Yeah. I got a car. I'll be there in two days. I'm staying the night in Miami."

"Yes, rest, eat." But also a warning. "Don't stay long. There are people in Miami—"

"I know. I'm leaving in the morning."

"Are you all right?"

"I don't know."

"I have cottages… on my property. One is ready for you."

Todd grew quiet. He had taken a huge leap in trusting Pedro to get him across the border. It worked. He was too worn out to think about hate. "Thank you," he said.

"I told you, I knew God would protect you."

"Gotta go."

He hung up. Looked up the other number and dialed. Jed whooped like he'd won the lottery when he heard his dad's voice. "Jesus fucking Christ, I can't believe you got through. Fuck!"

"I know. I'm still sweating. Anyway...I'll be at Pedro's place in two days. Probably get there in the evening so I'll call you, ok?"

"Yeah, yeah." He sighed and then got emotional. "I'm really glad you're here."

"Me too. Um… how's Téa?"

Too many beats of quiet.

"Jed? All okay?"

"You aren't gonna believe what she's doing."

"What." Couldn't control the growl.

"According to Gloria, Téa's meeting with Eladio Merced—"

"What?"

The phone got staticky, "Dad?"

"Jed?"

Then it went dead.

"Fuck!" Threw the phone against the pillows of the bed, forcing sleepy Abram to get off the bed to resume his nap on the carpet. Todd groaned, the world closing in on him. What… the… holy hell? What was his Delgado doing?! He knew that guy. Head of _Los Muertos_. He had the smallest run-in with him in Statesville and he was a real smooth _fucker._ He had to get home. Hell with the Miami motel. He got to his feet and… and…

... collapsed back down. Yeah, that wasn't gonna happen. Exhaustion made leaving an impossibility.

He picked up the phone and tried dialing Jed back but it wouldn't go through. Then he saw a text and clicked to read.

 _I gotta handle kids. Talk later. Love you.  
_

He texted right back, _Okay. I love you too. Later alligator._

Got back a, _In a while crocodile._

He touched the screen, his heart squeezing at the idea that Jed was maybe with Lucia, Reese, Rose, raging Espie. He closed the texts. Stared at the numbers to make another call. He chewed his lip and pressed the back of his hand on his mouth. The number was in his head. One number he remembered. His windows were open and the ocean's roar filled him with a childlike wish to be _home_.

He dialed the numbers. Held the phone to his ear. And goddamn… she answered.

"Hello?"

He stopped breathing. Hit the mute because he had no control of the aching whimper that escaped. He hunched over and closed his eyes, shaking like mad.

"Hello?" She said it again, pausing.

He wondered if she knew it was him. Like before. Like when he was on the streets and heroin was everything. Tears rolled down his face when he heard her sigh.

"I don't know what game you're playing but I don't have time for this shit."

He wanted to respond. He wanted to say her name. He unmuted the phone because he wanted her to hear the sea, his heartbeat, his aliveness.

"Well, fuck you too," she said, her voice softening.

And that was that. Line went dead once again.

* * *

Téa stared at her cell… she had heard crashing waves, heard a hitched breath. Heard the muting and the unmuting. She pushed the phone away and it skidded off the kitchen table, past the box of ashes in front of her. Sipped her coffee. The house was quiet. Jed, back-stabbing Jedediah who spent a month chasing nothing but bullshit, took all the kids to get ice cream because she was spitting angry that he looked sun-kissed and strong and had hair like Todd's and loving hazel eyes when he said, "I'm sorry I hurt you by going there but I had to," _sorry sorry sorry._

 _I hate that word, Delgado._

It took everything in her not to dump the ashes down the sink.

 _Fuck you… you left me, you fucking bastard. You left your family. You chose hell._

She huffed and coffee spilled and no matter how hard she tried to silence it, the memory of his voice still broke through. Another phone call. Long ago.

" _Téa ... you hold me ... okay ... you tell me ... there's something ... beyond this ... that's here ... the hell ... okay ... I need to know…"_

 _"Beyond what? Beyond ... you being alone?"_

 _"Beyond all of it. Beyond life ... that when I die ... I won't hurt anymore ... you tell me that."_

It took a long while for the soul-wracking tears to finally stop.

 **To be continued...**


End file.
